Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

My phone vibrates, just as I'm crawling into bed. I recognize the area code instantly.

"Hey."

"Hey," he says. I can hear pots crashing in the background. I am transported back to our many hours of conversation, all those years ago, as he cooked dinner.

"What are you cooking?" I ask.

"Rice. Fish. Dinner," he says. Nothing has changed.

"Look," he continues. "I wanted to call...to apologize for kissing you the other day. It was....very forward of me." He pauses. I let him pause.

"And I wanted to ask you," he continues, after a moment, "if you're interested in being my...well, my 'special friend'."

I stop listening after that, but the words keep coming.

He vomits words, like pebbles on my glass heart.

When he pauses for breath, I know I should refuse, swear at him, spit.

Instead I say, "I think I'd like to play it by ear."

"Right, right, good choice," he says. The pans still crash.

Nothing has changed.

After I hang up, I don't cry, but I lay for a long time in the dark.

The worst part about it, I think, was that for a moment, for a beautiful split second moment, for one momentarily breathless electric explosion, I thought maybe I didn't have to change any more to be loved.

Maybe it could work this time.

Maybe we could meet in the middle.

I sleep, I dream, but not about him.

Nothing has changed.

.

Rosie.

Before&After