By Dean Haspiel
Our posse parked on the side of the bridge to stand by the shore and look out across the sea at that mecca of late night neon light and I was worried about crabs scampering across my boots. You were half a click to my right, sipping from your flask. The drink was warm but your frame looked cold, the way you held yourself. I was compelled to stagger over and put a friendly arm around your shoulders. Supply you with heat. A gentleman’s touch. Only, the gesture would’ve betrayed a different kind of fire. Something I wasn’t prepared to spare you and share in front of my comrades. I was in a quandary…for several reasons. So, I kept my napalm hands to myself. I was being honorable. What I wouldn’t give you, I denied myself. I could have saved babies from burning buildings.