el pajaro

You said Chicago's bridges smelled like chocolate, so when you sent me that photo of the LaSalle Street bridge, the one you took with your Holga, I smelled it. I got, as you might expect, the scent of developing chemicals. No chocolate.

The familiar odor reminded me of the mess you used to make of our bathroom. The dripping negatives. Your enlarger balanced on the toilet. Me banging on the door.

Go next door, love, you’d say, convincing me that I was the one being silly, to want to use my own toilet.

The sun would set and I’d sit curled up on your leather chair, reading until the sand underneath my eyelids bloodied them, until I couldn’t pretend any more that I wanted to be awake. I’d hear you whistling on the other side of the door. Lost to prints of Prague, Puebla, or Manarola.

You lost, trying to perfect the contrast between the minaret and the sky. Between native bird and flower. Between breast and areola. Within folds of velvet.

And me wishing for a little chocolate.