The last time we talked, her hand trembled, warm as it lay on my arm, and she seemed to feel a pain to which I’d already gone numb. She talked to me like I was sick, like I was dying.
This time she talked as if I were already dead. We’d
been out of touch for a year. I saw her sitting in a cafe reading one evening, and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
She turned around. Her face looked thinner,
paled from living in the north-- “Oh, you.” She said, and glanced back for a moment at her book.
“How’ve you been?” “What’ve you been doing?”
“How is…” I hardly knew where to start. She answered my questions at her
own pace, the pace of her reading… Her
answers were hand-picked, so that they didn’t really tell me anything. I stood there not knowing
where to go. Across the room, someone clanked their fork loudly.
I took the hint and smiled.
"Well, then. I better stop bothering you… Have a good life!" I waved
at her and left. She might have nodded, or maybe she was only going back to her book.
Outside it was already pitch dark, and the huge parking lot deserted. I walked into the middle of it.
"What now?" I asked.
"Loneliness." The dark replied.
"Loneliness?"
"Yes. Loneliness." Echoed the
dark.