This is how I will remember you.
Andrean and I ate a jalapeno.
It wasn't bad, until we got
to the seeds, where hell resides.
The tops of our strawberry Fanta
were already pried of by eager
fingers, and Andrean's tanned hand--
brown by pigment, darker still
from working in the sun--
snaked across the table to steal
my soda, my one shot at drowning
out the taste of too-much-guacamole.
In a fit of evilness, I allowed Andrean
to chug the entire bottle,
which only served to heap
more misery onto his tongue. His face
was bright red--
whether from the jalapeno or mortification,
I shall never know--and that
is how I remember him. Laughing,
crying, stealing my Fanta, still alive.