Five Clams

Five is the prompt, and five is the time limit I’ve set on my phone. Five times five is twenty-five and five the number I held up on my hand that first night you walked in late to the terrible poetry reading at the Kala—supposed super stars from Portland, a good looking one with terrible forced rhyme and the short, fat one who was more wordsmith, but needed the other’s looks to book seats?

I found out later you’d just rolled into town after escaping L.A. and hadn’t liked the bar across the street. I was taking money at the door as a favor to Dinah and it was really supposed to cost ten, but I figured we were half way in and five was fine enough a price for what was on offer. You told me later when I’d closed and opened my hand—motioning the five bucks that I’d done it twice—five plus five equals ten and my failure at sign, you took to mean I was letting you know I was a ten!

Next day we went for walk, hoping for possible clams off of parking lot B, strolling in the chilly wind towards the south jetty. You wore a green, army colored coat and it wasn’t very thick for a November day even if the sun was showing from behind the swift passing clouds. We didn’t find any tell-tell showing’s and so we ordered a bucket of steamers at Buoy 9, you pointing out we ought to go there for sure if it was my birthday too, that 9th day of November.

Today, it’s been five months since we last talked, hugged for the last time in the parking lot of the nautical museum—in the moment not knowing that would be it. Today, too, I walk that stretch and am able and happy enough to dig five healthy razors from sand, Abe at my side fishing for perch with his little orange pole.