F WORD Volume XII

JUDY STORIES Julia Loach Judy won’t answer your texts, But it’s nothing personal Her bike brakes are mostly rust They make the blaring sound of a multi-vehicle collision, But she’ll never fix them Judy let me cry on her shoulder during a campus film screening A montage of a family at a beach first got me weepy, I worsened during the scene where the father picks up his only child from school I laughed as her hand surveyed my face for tears in the dark, Popcorn fell on the floor, people stared, But I felt somewhat proud to be mournfully intertwined with her Two years ago, Judy almost knocked me off a chairlift It was an accident – her snowboard clipped mine as we sat down With my chest pressed on the seat, hands gripping the backrest, I saw the ground move five, ten, then twenty feet away By the time I realized I’d break a limb or two if I fell, it didn’t matter, Judy had already hoisted me up while shrieking and giggling I think I owe her something I can never deliver, Me and the rest of the world, that is Something intangible, Something that lingers in the moment before we both drift off to sleep, When two people stop murmuring at the same time, letting each other go for a few immaterial hours I could debate with her, lend her books, pose semi-nude for her paintings, sing about her Yet, it would not replicate the feeling of her kissing me on the cheek, As she does right after telling me not to be heartbroken over someone