When you said “I’ll never leave you,” I get that you didn’t mean “never.” Fine. It’s been a week, though… You can’t throw around words like that, and not expect them to have meaning. And it’s a bold thing to say. Who says that anymore? Except when you are in love, and actually mean it, or you just finished a long hike and you’ve revealed some angst filled strain in your DNA that your dad gave you when you were eight. Because that’s when everything happens. People think it’s nine, or, seven. It’s not. It’s eight. And after finally putting that devastating chapter to rest on that hike you “I’ll never leave you.”
The thing is. I’m on the floor right now with a broken leg, and I’m looking at your back and it’s getting and smaller. In fact, all of you is getting smaller and smaller.
You planned this all out from the moment I suggested Old Rag, didn’t you. And not this weekend, when I brought it up in September of 2013. Everything fell into place like a cosmic puzzle. The planets had to be aligned just so! You waited for me to start Crossfit, and knew the tenderness of my lower back and calves; you chose last night for us to experiment with mezcal, and how strange it was going down; finally, the coup de grace… the scent of almonds in my coffee. You goddess. You damn brilliant piece of work. You thought of everything didn’t you. Except the car keys I buried half a mile back in a place you’ll never find.