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  • If you can imagine the bluest twilight you have ever seen, sitting there on the couch, him, with one arm, draped on the ledge of the window, a cigarette burning, a spark of orange, smoke, hazy, drifting, dissipating. . . He was a cop. He was my neighbor. And on Sundays, after work, he would come through the back door of my apartment, sometimes still in uniform, through the kitchen, and wordlessly we would undress, we would grapple, sometimes in the kitchen, in the living room, anywhere, slip-sliding on the linoleum, or the Persian rug, itchy against my neck, we would fuck, rough, urgent, his teeth, biting, hurting, the thrust of his desire, culminating into the slick of sweat, raspy, and breathless, panting, like dogs, we clung to each other, breathing in unison.

    Afterwards, he would always smoke, sitting on my chocolate brown couch, in the living room of my apartment, one arm draped outside the window. With just his underpants on, he would always have this satisfied grin on his face. The blue navy of his uniform scattered around the room, matching the color of the twilight.

    His mustache, I remember was this fuzzy, brown, the same color of a stag that we once saw at the side of a road, in Sonoma, in the Valley of the Moon. Sometimes we would go camping. The two of us in a tent. By a creek. A river. One night we awoke to the howling of coyotes. And though I knew that the coyotes were not dangerous, his presence was so reassuring, I always slept so well in his embrace.

    He was not a talker. Nor was he very emotional. His secret hobby was knitting (he didn't want the guys at the police station to know). But he knitted beautiful sweaters, scarves, mittens, that he gave away to friends and family. He looked so tough, with tattoos all over his body, his head shaven, if he wasn't in uniform, you could easily say that he resembled a criminal, some neo-nazi skinhead.

    But i knew his heart. It was soft and plush like a teddy bear--at least in those small moments, when we became intimate with more than just our bodies.

    The day he moved away, I remember the U-haul truck, the boxes and boxes of cardboard. I remember him driving down the hill. It was Easter Sunday. The pink-white blossoms of the plum trees were blooming. At the stop sign, he honked three times. He waved.

    We never saw each other again.

    Yet, many years later, here he is again, his imprint is still with me, like a tattoo, the blue twilight, the blue uniform, i will never forget that shade of blue
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