El dice

How do you explain the pause? The pause of snow in Nebraska? Or the pause of wind in Nebraska that never goes away, that frames his voice on my answering machine, telling the whole world that we are not here, that we are there, instead. He did not, of course, say these things, though I sometimes wish he did, that the wind didn't say it in place of him, that he had thought of it first. But the wind spells it out, more than we wanted to have said, more secrets we keep and try to keep as secrets, our bodies turning gold in the places where we have been touched by each other, in my small cold bed - my fingers and his belly, his palm and my shoulder, his forehead, and mine. The wind sees us and spreads our stories so the whole city can look at us and remember what they heard, that it was so cold, and we so warm, that we glowed like candles from the window, two matches on a mountain.
He zipped up his coat in the face of those bitter truth-tellers. He kicked the dirt at his feet. He clenched his fists so the wind would not wrest them from him, not anymore.

He says "no voy a entregar."