He wanted to forget May, to forgive himself; to drink himself into a hole and never reappear. Little did he know, in the following year he would.
He would move away to a new liaison, be saturated by the words of Robert Frost, and learn to not waste his time on anything less than cold brew. He would find love again. Real love, better love, the kind that does not rupture, deteriorate, implode, or combust.
But on that particular Sunday, dressed in his fuchsia button up and his least comfortable pair of slacks, he ached for translucency. He ached to find ease.
And he was not thirsty.
And he was not hungry.
And he had not been hungry for one whole month.
He only wished he was hungry.
So, he did the only thing worth doing beneath the oppressive yoke of a sweltering, southern, summer.
He packed all his things.
And he went north.
