Everything is vague, this idea we might meet up again,
somewhere at some time, but don’t know when.
We still talk, now and then, a few back and forth texts to
pass the time of day or to keep something open I already know as dead.
I suspect we cannot revive the spirt.
She won’t commit to a date (if that’s what these curious get-togethers
have been), telling me maybe, some time, if she has time, she is so busy.
“Are we still friends? I ask, and feel the shrug rather than
see it, full of a yes, no, maybe, none of which I can take to the bank.
I want to say I’m sorry, but I’ve said that too many times,
thinking everything is my fault, or none of it, but most likely is, only I don’t
know how to correct it or make up for it, since I’m not completely clear what I
have done.
While she still talks to me, she doesn’t share the way she
used to, filled mostly with “How are you,” kind of things, and I know she’s not
listening when I replay, though she did perk up the other day when I said
something about my birthday, asking me what my plans were and when I told her I
didn’t have any, she said, “That’s night right. You ought to do something on
your birthday.”
I can tell she feels sorry for me in an uncomfortable way
and suggests we might have dinner together to celebrate.
“What kind of food do you like?” she asked. “How about we do
Indian?”
Then, I waited for her call, Sunday bleeding into Monday and
that into today. I called her.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t make it.”
“That’s all right,” I said, struggling to keep the
disappointment out of my voice, she reading it anyway and coming back with, “Maybe
we can still get a drink.”
“When?”
“Sometime.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Soon.”
Then a day or two later, she canceled the drink, promising another
dinner, postponing it last minute, then again agreeing to a drink.”
“At the same place as the last time,” she said, which is
tonight and I cringe each time my cell phone vibrates, convinced she will call
or text to cancel, despite my birthday wish.
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