MILONGA

The ice cube cracked when kissed by a tepid spirit in the glass. A small triumphant sound to mark the first time his tongue tasted scotch and the lips of another man. A clarinet sleeps on the shelf while the crystals continue to melt. Like the bodies on the couch. Two piles of paint swirling into a color he’s never seen. This is a milonga. A gathering of souls. Forever fleeting.