❤️❤️❤️

When I text, I only ever send heart emojis in odd numbers.
In pairs and quartets they just look ripe to break.
This is the sort of thing that causes people to tell me you think too much,
like when I meet someone who doesn’t wear glasses
and knows what streets are named,
and I want to say you see too much,
because I imagine it is a burden to see every leaf on a tree.

What possessed the man sitting next to me
to order orange juice at a café? In the rain? On Independence Day?
He sips it slow, like an actor inventing stage business,
like a man waiting for a woman who actually drinks coffee,
who always makes him wait,
and the orange juice was overpriced but it was all he understood on the menu,
and it only comes in one size.
Sesenta pesos, por favor. Dale.

The barista here, and only here, hears Catalina and calls me Carolina,
every time, proud of himself for remembering.
Was it a casual mistake, do you think, a bit of twisted courtesy?
Or perhaps he loved a Carolina once and just likes saying her name again.

All the music here is in English,
and the coffee has that imperialist-shade exposed-wood barstool flavor,
and all this makes me wonder is,
is that why they have recycled napkins instead of waxpaper,
and what does that mean,
like,
socioeconomically?

Would I think less if I could see the raindrops outside?
Does the orange juice have pulp?
Did Carolina wear glasses?
What’s the name of this street?

There are two heart emojis that email can’t differentiate:
the one for the card suit and the one for love.
There are thirteen hearts in a deck,
usually about three in a given text,
and one in a body.
I think just the right amount.