I'll give you up today while my brother sits on the sofa, crosslegged indian style, playing a video game on his Playstation. And I'll give you up tonight as my sister gazes into the mirror while she admires her new shade of pink lipstick. And I'll give you up tomorrow when my mother comes downstairs, her hair still tied in knots, ready to place three eggs on her steel frying pan. And I'll give you up next week when my grandmother, tired of cleaning, sits down to watch her novela at eight o' clock sharp. And I'll give you up next month when my father puts away his sweaters and chooses to wear that striped cotton shirt in celebration of the warmer weather. And I'll give you up next year when I, sitting in the barber's chair, decide to cut my hair three inches shorter to adjust to the newest trend. And I'll give you up....

Can I give you up now?

I rush to the nearest empty table and sit down. The waiter comes and brings me, following my strict directions, a warm cup of coffee. And as I sit here drinking ferverously, I can only think of how I'll give you up minutes later when the black disappears and only white porcelain dresses the very cup that I hold in my hands. So I indulge myself, enjoying - to the very last drop - the warm memory of you.

Can I give you up now?

The waiter comes. His eyes, lingering about my table, focus on my coffee cup, nude and shivering cold without the proper black shawl to drape upon its shoulders. And as his hands extend to take ownership of this mug, I look at him, almost pleading, in desperation. Minutes pass, and I, at that very moment, stay frozen in fear that a single movement will alter the course of events. So he smiles, almost understanding that the cold weather outside is too hard to brave with a single mug of coffee, and proceeds to fill the cup - up to the brim - with black delight.

Can I give you up now?

I leave a dollar worth of silver trinkets on the table and stand up. And before walking away with a day's worth of memories stored in my lips, I reconsider once more stealing away your porcelain bodice. You kissed me that July night, on the very center of the bridge in that Town and Country setting. But I lost you this winter day, leaving you alone in that snowy blanket in the hands of that smiling waiter.

Can I give you up now?

Coffee is a luxury when water is still free to be ordered as pleased. But I'll give you up only when winter is dislodged in order for the summer to take its place. And I'll give you up only when the small restaurant closes its doors and adorns its windows with an "Out of Business" sign. And I'll give you up only when that waiter with a coffee mug in his hands forgets to smile at the next eager customer because his wages are not enough to cover this month's rent. And I'll give you up only when the owner, too old to remember what to write anymore, forgets to include his "good ol' coffee cup" in the beverage section of his menu. And I'll give you up only when my pockets, strained by the necessities of life, cannot carry four nickels, three dimes, and two quarters no longer. And I'll give you up - only - when your memory is not of beauty but merely burden and instead of evoking a pleasant smile, it brings about a handful of tears.

Can I give you up now?

It's summer; the overbooked flights and the lack of visible sweaters tell me so. And it has been three weeks since that waiter - who long ceased to wear that smile - has been standing in line looking elsewhere to serve. And that owner, loving the smell of green paper butterflies, decided that books sold better than coffee and rid the place of all its tables. And my pockets are empty, not because of need, but because I emptied them earlier into the tin can of a sidestreet nobody. And I don't have a handful of tears but rooms filled and locked to prove, to you, that you have over-stayed your visit.

Can I give you up now?

I did, yesterday, as I drank two cups full of realization and left you behind in a Tupperware of leftovers.

----- Copyrighted 1999

Andrea Arias