She called me to get a drink on Friday, only I couldn’t do
it, so she settled to meet me for Breakfast on Sunday instead, an old Diner half
way between where we both lived.
I didn’t wear my hat; she almost didn’t recognize me when I
strode up John Wayne style to where she waited.
Whatever she intended didn’t transpire. We took a walk
instead, talking as we walked, her painful story unraveling before me with each
step, the special student she’d had high hopes for, then the dreadful suicide
on the eve of a wedding, something of a mirror image for a similar end she
sometimes contemplated for herself.
We traced our steps through life that had brought us to the
same place and passed a print shop where the owner invited us in, a strange
coincidence since I had just spoken to her about my once considering a career
as a printer’s assistant.
The owner was clearly taken with her, and she was well aware
of it.
This walk, which lasted for another hour, changed the
dynamic from what she called a “Working things out fuck,” to a dangerous
entanglement.
It left us both in a fog as I walked her back to where she
had parked her car, a fog that did not dissipate for me when I gave her a peck
of a kiss and fled.
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