Today I went to the dentist and the hygienist was awful. He was so nice and over educatory. I immediately thought up ways to avoid getting him in six months for the second cleaning. What I want is someone who won't try to talk to me at all. Give me that girl from three years ago who doesn't understand how they make decaf coffee beans, because I don't either and I want HER cleaning my teeth.
By noon I was sitting up tall in my chair at work and really taking care of business. It's easy to feel overly confident when you pull your hair into a pony tail and all the guys in licensure pause to listen to what you say from your side of the office.
"I miss you," is what I whisper. I miss your freckles that I only noticed on Thursdays. I miss telling you what I heard on NPR on my way to work. I miss you when you haven't moved in chess for a few hours. When an Arby's commercial comes on.
I start to write you a letter, twenty times a day, that says I was wrong and we're kidding ourselves to say we can meet someone else good enough. Like a politician, I pretend I like other people's babies. I eat healthier. I decline comments on how I spend my free time. Like a politician I stop writing the letter for the good of us both. For what we signed up for. For the long run.
I sigh, even though I sit up so straight, and the sigh becomes all the hours of my day. And when I finally drive home, I want to drive home to your house. To your mood swings and your diatribes and your bullet points. To your balcony, to your steak dinners, to setting our silverware out, to feeding the cat.
I'd do the last night over if I could.
Wouldn't argue.
I'd hold hands and smile and think it was the beginning again. I'd choreograph every moment so that the words would never come out.
