Friday night I went to my favorite Manhattan bar with D. We go there once or twice a week to unwind and talk. I walked up to the gay bartender who is always friendly and makes all kinds of playful eye contact with me. I ordered our drinks. He looked at me and whispered, “Okay, Miss Power of Love.” Miss Power of Love. He doesn’t know what I write about or even what I do. “Of all the things to call you,” D said, “it’s perfect.” The bartender was referring, still, to the nights I spent with X over two months ago. During the late winter and early spring. All the kissing and talking and touching we did for hours at the bar. Miss Power of Love. He was referring to the night, while kissing X in the beginning of April, the candle on our table mysteriously blew out and the stone/metal table fell over without my even touching it. When it happened the bartender, who also called me a witch and winked at me, rushed over with others to pick the table up off the floor and whispered in my ear, “That’s what love does” when I apologized and said I didn’t know how it had even happened. Miss Power of Love. He could call me anything, he could chalk us up to two random people hooking up and having fun at a bar. He could think there were other men. He knows it’s over, I told him when it happened, when he asked where X was, why I wasn’t with him anymore, which everyone did, even though we only came to the bar a handful of times together. Even though we were never a couple. Even though I’ve been there with other men (D, being one of them; and another who I also kissed a month after it was over with X. Something I regret and didn’t even want) all along, and still. The bartender reminds me. He still brings him up. He wants me to remember something (Frank Ocean: “When my mind is telling me to forget you, what’s gonna make me remember?”)

Crossposted with Love Dog