My old journal says she went there more than once, the
summer before Sandy tore up the pier that stretched out into the sea, then
later, months after the storm, the majestic green hotel with gold trim I ache
over with each visit, as I pick the scab of an old wound, I just won't let heal,
my brain manufacturing a rogues gallery of men who might have shared that place
with her, maybe one man again and again, unable to say no: a glass of wine over
a fine dine and then a good time between the sheets, the whole time, I wish
that man -- the one so full of charm and grace-- might have been me, jealousy
rearing it's ugly head even all these years later, when it all has become moot,
and yet -- drenched in that salty air-- I can't help myself, tempted even now
to go up the steps and see if she might be there
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