Stagnation.



Here— how we are now, your gun at my head, my knife at your throat. Checkmate.


Our kings are toppled.


Maybe if it were another time. Another place.



Maybe if we met as we are now, better, at twenty and twenty two— in a cafe— at the movies— at school— through mutual friends. Hi, you’d say.



Maybe if it were not us as we were then, at thirteen and fifteen— in an opera house— far from home— during the intermission— in the bathroom. This place stinks, you said.


This might be a weird question, you’d say. There is no question weird enough for me, I’d say. We would laugh.


I had blushed. You were so good at that. Making me shy— making me second guess myself. You were so good. I don’t mind it, actually.

Really?! Your voice was so high. A screechy little thing. I was a tall little girl, but you managed to dwarf me.


You and your long hair and your big hands.



You were so big.




Is today Thursday?



It would be Tuesday.



I would laugh— and I would laugh and laugh. In this world, I wouldn’t cover my mouth when I laughed, because I never had you to teach me that.


You would frown like you always do when you don’t get a joke— eyebrows drawn together, frown half-up half-down. What?


I thought for sure that would be a pick-up line.


Another time, another time. Not fourteen and sixteen, when I realized— a year too slow— that I loved you.


Not sixteen and eighteen, when you kissed me like a loaded gun. Turned around and forgot.


Oh. Is it too late for it to be one?



No. It’s never too late.



I drew my knife, then. Knew I would never be safe.