I look down at my mug. I don’t know why she wanted to see me. I don’t see any sand on her shoes. Somehow we started arguing about themes. Her eyes green-blue, a brew of pine needles and lake water. This woman who was never my teacher.

I ask her how her summer is going. She is occupied with travel and poetry. Taking some beach time and riding her bike. Just mind the barometer. You can’t reduce a poem to slicing baloney, her hand slapping the table. A glass sheet separating vintage theater tickets from her palm.

I’m thinking of writing about levitating desks and helium breath. Myths where clay people use heat to mold faces. My summer isn’t going well. I wanted a rain of sunflower petals. Boxes and boxes of papers. There’s only so much cutting and wrapping I can handle. Stares of pity while making deliveries. A bicycle tire deflating.

She waves aside a fly. I watched this series and touch is such an important theme. When someone was sick, someone touched their arm. Show them you’re here. She reaches toward me. It’s amazing how we need the tactile.

I watch her hand stop halfway across the table. I raise an eyebrow. We talk about things I don’t remember.

Good to see you. Swinging her purse. Stay in touch. And she was gone from the coffee shop that doesn’t exist anymore.

– Aura Martin