Dangerous Compassions

promises, promises

“What’s your plan with this burrito?” I asked Ming.

“You mean on high?” he asked. He had the burrito on top of the rice cooker, and it really was somehow towering over the other counter objects.

“Yeah, like an angel I’ve heard,” I said, feeling bewildered by how his burrito became suddenly like an angel related to Christmas. “You want me to put it in the fridger?”

“I’m letting it cool,” he said. “Then I’ll put it in a box because I’m afraid it’ll leak or unfold when I pull it out, spilling its contents.”

I admired his reasoning, though he doesn’t have to justify shit to me. “Sounds good,” I said. I wanted to say, “Fair enough!” but I don’t like to say that.

Yesterday on our morning ride, I promised to do a ritual to honor the shrimp who died for his dinner. Promises, promises! “What is a shrimp?” I’d asked. “Is it a bug?”

“A what?”

“Is a shrimp a bug? Like a roly poly? Are they the same?”

“Roly polies are arthropods,” he said, which didn’t really answer my question. I was trying to understand shrimp life. Shrimp life as it pertains to my own life, garden life.

“Oh my god, you make me sick in your correctness! Roly polies are arthropods!” I said much later, looking it up. Yep–that’s the phylum.

This morning I told Ming, “I had a dream about Mama! She had these fireworks. But instead of doing explosions in the sky, they put stars in the sky. Constellations of stars. Kinda makes sense, huh?”

“Yeah!” he said. I was touching his back, feeling the lines that sheet creases had left on his skin. He was still waking up.

“They’re supposed to be like bombs, but who wants bombs? We want stars!”

Here’s the bomb litter we saw yesterday morning on our ride.

He left me a little bit of his burrito, all the shrimp eaten, just rice and cheese and tortilla, which I was ecstatic about, as the end and the beginning of a burrito are my favorite parts.

Thank you, my dear. You are the best possible boyfriend. Pity the love-fools who are not given such delicious burrito portions.

“Why do I love burritos so much?” I asked Ming, as I chowed down. “It’s not even a specific thing! A burrito is any food, in a tortilla, right? But they’re so good!”

“They are so good,” he said.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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