He stood with his hands in his pockets,
J-Crew haircut perfectly resting atop his head.
He stood with his hands in his pockets making sure it was still there.

He could feel it, which reassured him but until he was rid of it he could not be entirely sure.
Sure of himself, sure of his love,
sure that life was good and that he would make it.

He loved this thing but it was not his love.

And so he stood, waiting for the boy.

The boy came.
He came like lightning with no thunder; tremendous at first, but increasingly lackluster the closer he came.

He motioned to the boy and the boy increased his pace.

From one pocket to another the thing was exchanged.

He finally breathed once the boy was gone.
For the first time in three years he breathed.

He got in his car.
On the highway he felt an odd sort of peace.
An endless stream of cars passed him, yet none followed and none were in front of him, they were all entering, he was leaving,
for good.