Five Years--Revision

We were sitting in some diner. Some damned diner that would seat us past midnight. If I had been a doctor, I would have heard your heart beating irregularly, extracurricularly, spectactularly sadly, and beautifully, across the orange vinyl.

"So now what?"

Your voice rose, a song. I hung myself on that question mark.

In therapy, you repeated that question so often that Dr. Weisman rolled her eyes, clapped her hands, and took a long vacation to South Africa. Apartheid was easier to end than our relationship.

If I had opened my mouth, three little words might have tripped out truthfully.

I might have said, "I can't deal."

Maybe something like, "It is over."

Or, to put it another way, "I love you."

Three truths trilling on the tip of my tongue, and all I could think of was your name.

I loved your name in those inky blue hearts you hid in the margins of every sheet of paper in my briefcase. your name, esses lassoing onto the end of neon-pink Post-Its, where you'd declare your love at lunchtime.

Alyssa, downstairs in my tuxedo shirt.

Alyssa, in a silk dress.

Alyssa, a sigh, a silence.

I watch myself get up and go.