I wasn’t prepared when I saw her. I thought I was, but I was wrong. When she arrived I saw her with one half of my brain. The other half was replaying all those memories.
She sat down beside me at the picnic table. Around us were food trucks parked at the perimeter of a large unused parking lot. It was a foodie thing, admittedly but all of the six trucks rocked it. The food was spectacular. Usually I felt happy when I came here. It reminded me of LA a bit even though it didn’t take much to look at the people walking around to remind you where you were. “Michigan suburban chic…October version.” In front of me: a lobster roll with garlic aloli, cillantro accented with a mix of french grey sea salt and fresh cracked black pepper.
Near perfect. Untouched. Not hungry.
Fucked.
“I’ve been meaning to get down here.” she said looking around.
“It’s okay.” I said (lied) looking down at my sandwich. I was hoping I could distract myself. It wasn’t working. “We’ve been here before.”
She knew what I meant. “Yes, we have.” She said. She had some smoothie thing with her that was a disturbing shade of green. She took a hit from the straw in the cup she held. “Sorry….lunch.”
“Yeah.” I said. I sounded stupid.
We sat there for a few minutes. We didn’t know what to say.
“Lobster roll?"
I grinned. "Yeah. In Michigan. On a Monday.”
She gave me that look; it was almost as good as a laugh….or a smile.
“I’ve missed you.” I said.
“You had my number.”
“Yeah….yeah.” Awkward.
“We’re still friends.,” she said, “Aren’t we?”
“Yes. Of course we are.”
“Just….not like before.”
“That’s the problem.” I said. The first true statement. I would have been proud of myself if I wasn’t so messed up inside. I just remembered her against me, how she smelled, how she was always warm, and how she stroked the back of my head and my neck because….she….liked…it. I didn’t remember the arguments or that last one that drove her into the arms of some loafer wearing middle manager at a widget company with cubicles and casual Fridays.
It had been a year.
“I’ve been watching your stuff. Nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yes, nice. Big boobed women in competition with me are just "nice.”“
"You’re not in competition with anyone. Not all of them have big boobs.”
“We’ve had this conversation before. You say ‘it’s coincidence’ and I say you actively seek women with notable titties.”
I laughed a bit. “Still not true.”
“Perhaps.” She said. “Eat your lunch. We have to figure out how to fix us. Again.”
I turned to her. “What did you do?”
“Called him an asshole and threw a drink in his face. Don’t ask. It was warranted.”
“'We’ can be equally as challenging.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Again.” I said.
She reached the bottom of her cup. I knew that because she made a dramatic ending slurp and put it down of the table. “Again,” she added as additional punctuation.
“We’re idiots. Me and you. You realize this don’t you?”
“Yep.” She said.
I laughed. People were still milling about. A bit of that awkwardness was leaving. The lack of that weight felt good. The air seemed a bit lighter. Winter was coming but I could still smell the remnants of Summer….or something; something receding, but still there.
“The sunlight….” I said slowly, “The way it played off of you in the morning while you were sleeping. Through the window and the curtains…onto you…like it belonged there. That’s what I missed the most. That’s what I want to see again.”
I guess I finally said something that she didn’t expect. She just stared at me. Her eyes began to water a bit.
I turned back to my sandwich and took a bite.
It was pretty damn good….




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