If this were my movie your text message tonight would have been followed by the scene in which you were standing out front a la Lloyd Dobler with the boom box playing “Down in the Willow Garden” this time rather than “In Your Eyes” and perhaps you would be naked under the trench coat (Jeremy’s addition, he’s married, let him live a little), and maybe you were coming over to seduce me. Maybe you wanted to dance on the double yellow line in the middle of the street right by the public niusance/ pedestrian protection crosswalk signs. We would watch as a black dog pranced down the street, as Mrs. O’Leary walks her angus. A light rain would fall and cover us, your hair all languid curls. My bald spot showing. Or maybe it was pickup packed with your stuff and you had decided that a life away from me was far less preferable than a life with me, and that furthermore, we could save more for our trip to the South Pacific by living together.
I didn’t tell you about the trip to the South Pacific? The tickets are bought. You just have to show up. It will be right before you start graduate school, and around the time that I get all the pieces put back together.