45.

She was dating my brother when we met. At the base of the stairs her skin shone honey from distant incandescence and in an 18-year-old hormonal slosh I squeezed by hoping she wouldn't mention my presence. Pop-Tart Pop-Tart Pop-Tart. Only when repetition is broken are we alive and in another hormonal indecision I answered hi, nice to, meet, you,
Hi I'm Cyndi, she said, my name is spelled in a less affluent way than the other one you know, or even than the third spelling which you have never even considered, but I promise you, its not telling of me, telling only of the afluencies which will occur between us over the next year, and as I sit with you at some point, at the October playground kissing, in my January bed sobbing, in your Spring car singing or in those same timeless lyrics, you will not be considering the arguably blue collar spelling of my name.
And in an exhausted pinch I continued on into the kitchen
as silver tears sent
parabolic curves
through the distinctly
my-house-air. It was
stainless steel that night
that caught the tears.
Stain-
less-
Steel