The prickly pear tea brought him back to Santa Fe — brought him back to her. It had been years since that week in the small adobe brick shack outside of town, nestled amongst the rolling dunes and the looming saguaros. How long ago had it been? Seven years? Ten years? He would have been a younger man then, just turned twenty-one and she, an older woman. She had seen decades of change in the city before he was even born. And still more before he had even stepped foot off the train into her strange land. She fascinated him — in the way she thought, in the way she spoke, in the way her strong-legged silhouette straddled him in the flicker of candlelight. He bowed to her gospel.

He had promised to return while they stood on the platform the morning of his final day in the desert. Boarding the train, he looked back to find her standing there, arms crossed, the right side of her full lips curved up in a knowing smile. He was ephemeral — a passerby, and she, a permanent fixture amongst the terracotta landscape. Her dark eyebrows furrowed, creasing together in the way that he had grown so fondly of in their six short nights together. Then, unstoppably so, the train pulled away from the station, the whistle ripping through the calm blue sky. He looked back to see her dark, braided hair gracefully retreating down the platform.

In the diner in New York, he thumbed the rim of the white porcelain cup. The red liquid breathed ghostly vapor up into his face, obscuring the vision that at this time, his dim eyes did not possess. He only saw Santa Fe.

He remembered the first time their eyes met, through the dimly lit cigarette smoke hanging heavy on the wood-paneled walls of that bar of which the name now escaped him. He recalled the poor excuse for a joke he said to her, and how she laughed that beautiful laugh that could paint the night stars in the sky and make the birds sit and listen on any given morning.

When the bar closed down they walked home, arm in arm, like they had known each other their whole lives. And what a beautiful life it would have been — and in that moment, it was. They talked like they had only known each other and no other thing. The night had been warm, he remembered well, the light breeze playfully coaxed them home.

The shack was a dismal thing, but with her there it seemed more than enough. He was staying there to finish writing the book that he had promised his publisher back in the city, he told her. There was simply no money to go around, but when he’d come back, he’d have her stay with him at the nicest hotel and eat at the best restaurants in town. She laughed and smiled and rubbed her fingers through his hair.

“Anything else you’d like?”

“What?” He said, his vision returning to fluorescent light of the diner — returning back to New York and the life that seemed so painfully in front of him now.

“I said, do you want anything else? You’ve been working on that cup of tea for a while now,” said the waitress, as she furrowed her dark brows and crossed her arms.

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“Sounds good, I’ll just leave this here,” she placed the check at the edge of the table and turned and left him with his deep sunset colored tea. The steam had ceased and he watched the stained glass smoothness of the red liquid inside the white cup.

He sipped it and felt it flow down his throat. Sweet and dark and longing. Then he put on his coat, put a few dollars on the table and walked out into the brisk city air. The western sun blazed through the windows.

– Sam Spring

Note: This piece was previously published by Clackamas Literary Review in 2025.