He loved confetti so I made him a confetti gun. The day after New Year’s, we took it to the rooftops and aimed our new weapon at the ones who were going home in the afternoon with confused and hurt looks on their faces. We fired with precision and the colors tumbled to the ground like the Autumn of a doll’s country, the paper caught in the wind of traffic (we had chosen a busy street). For half a second, they all smiled, and for an hour after that, they laughed. It is basic biology that we all look funny as we twirl but the curtains of chromatic paper formed arms to shield the bashful and the brazen were made humble by the brightness of every gust.
One thing we had not planned on: it wasn’t long before the confetti choked the gutters and the water from the rain that day rose up around our ankles. We sloshed and we kicked, and the waters were vibrant with our movements. New tides formed and pulled, blushing with bright umbrellas. I gave him a flower that I pulled from a bush that couldn’t float and he wore it in his lapel as we went.
He grabbed a floor bass that floated from our neighbor’s house and I took refuge on a torn-away door. We waited for the waters to recede, pet the heads of the dogs as they swam past us, tails a-wag like propellers.
“Are you going to go home today?” he asked.
“Not today,” I said, making a little boat of my shoe. “Maybe tomorrow.”