Two Torn Sugars
by Brian Berlin
Copyright © 2026 Brian Berlin. All rights reserved.
two torn sugars
spilled
into my iced tea
tall plastic glass
chipped and scratched
old as the place itself
clustered cubes
of machined ice
floating at the top
slowing the sugar’s
passage below
and so I stirred
with the long-handled spoon
a few laps
around the glass
to sweeten
the drink
the girl—
the woman now
but I will always remember
and think of her as a girl
the girl who played
the slide trombone
in marching band
our sophomore year
the girl who,
after a drumstick rapped my lip
and someone dared her as a joke
why don’t you kiss it
and make it better?
the girl who,
without hesitation
stood and strode
to where I sat
she bent to me
and touched her lips
to mine
my first kiss
our first kiss
the girl—
the woman
sat across from me
recalling polite memories
over lunch
at the café
with the river-stone walls
and the deer heads hung
beside the painting
of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza
atop their horses
windmill on the horizon
we talked
as the ice thinned
catching up
about now and then
days gone by and why
had it really been
that many years?
I sipped my tea
and tasted that
the sugar settled
at the bottom
and so I stirred
with the long-handled spoon
a few laps
around the glass
to re-sweeten
the drink
before it settled again