Why I Hate Tequila Shots

by C. Riley

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I was afraid 
of what time would look like 
without my shadow kissing 
her heels, as she tended
to the liquor like a younger sister, 
so I said yes to each tequila fist. 
Our front porch was the only bar 
we could afford to be at 
past midnight. We’d prop 
our backs against anything 
as sturdy as our commitment 
to intoxication and flick 
American Spirits into our gravel 
garden. I had never seen anything 
more stunning than her confidence. 
The way she held a lighter steady 
without singeing her thumb. 
The way she walked into a room
like every day was her birthday. 
The way she alchemized a conversation 
with an aux chord. So when she offered 
to teach me how to kiss, I was an eager 
student. Nevermind that we were 22 
and had been kissing other people 
for years. No one else was around
to charm her lips into other plans. 
She was glowing like the quiet beam 
of the street lamp was meant for only her 
face. Of course. It was always only her 
face. Even though I’d seen her every morning 
over steaming coffee — all at once 
we were brand new. When she said 
the key was relaxing my lips, 
I focused my buzzing blood 
on letting loose until I was certain 
I was worthy of her tender 
mouth. I don’t know how long 
we sat there, leaning into each other. 
Learning. But it only took a second
for her to go inside and pour 
another tiny glass
with salt.

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C. Riley (she/her) wholeheartedly believes in the power of storytelling and iced coffee year round. Her work can be found in What Are Birds? journal, From Whispers to Roars journal and Hyades Magazine.