Mexican Coke.

You told me to listen to Arabella

as if I didn't already own the album,

and told me that it reminded you of me

as you kept playing a riff from another song,

and I drank another Mexican Coke,

just like I had for the last 13 years—

ever since my dad had brought me

to that little burrito place

on the rough side of town

and handed me The Gunslinger

to read when I was five.

I wore out the album—

and apparently my welcome—

but that's alright.

I know that even though you'll probably

use that line on some other girl someday,

or even something just vaguely similar,

she'll never have the memory

of you jumping up and clicking your heels together

like Dick Van Dyke 

after kissing me in a Walmart parking lot

quite like I do.