Bum Heart

In New York I made out with a boy named Marty with a health condition that he described as a “bum heart.”

“I gotta bum heart!” he said matter of factly as he rapped his knuckles against his chest. His accent reminded me of someone from the TV show Jersey Shore, which normally would have been a turn-off but I had had one too many Dirty Shirlies that night and my inhibitions were all askew.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“My heart, it just ain’t right” he barely elaborated before taking a long drag off his cigarette. I watched two sinewy strands of smoke curl up into his nostrils and thought: maybe I have a similar problem. I thought about sharing this new revelation with Marty but then realized I had no medical evidence to support this claim; only a slew of spiteful exes.

Throughout the night Marty kept wandering outside for cigarette breaks and each time I would follow him, even though I didn’t smoke. It was fall and the air was so cold I could feel my fragile California blood congealing beneath my thin hoodie but somehow it was still better than being inside the bar.

“Come home with me,” he whispered, as he wrapped me in his knee-length peacoat.

The heat felt good but I ignored the question. It wasn't really a question at all. It was a demand, and I don't take well to those. I took one last glance at the tall trees that lined the parking lot. They looked tired, as if they were ready to shed the last of their lemon-colored leaves but couldn't quite muster the strength.

The pop music pulsating from inside the bar seemed palpable in my drunken state and I noticed that a dewy, mustard-colored light was spilling out from the doorway and onto our touching feet. Marty then started kissing me. I waited until he was finished to give him back his peacoat and head toward the glow.