The first

My father always says they fell in
love sitting on the Malecón, legs
dangling over the wall, when her
flip-flop fell off her foot onto the
rocks. He says he jumped off to
rescue the sandal lost. All the love
stuff happened when he climbed
back up. They say a story breathes
in the telling. Sometimes there’s
a rope and a grappling hook.
A more heroic fall. Or a group
of swimming boys coming to
snatch it from her foot.
Sometimes he catches it
before the drop with one
hand diving. Or something
about a lone angler and a
borrowed fishing line.
There’s always the flip-
flop, the salty
sea-spray, the
smell of fish
floating
between
Gulf and
Strait.