Your picture isn't worth one of my words





I quit saying his name. It’s different when you write it down. It doesn’t hurt.

“What are you doing?”

“Having coffee with Michael.”

“Your brothers here! Why didn’t you tell me!”

She pulls up. It took her longer to get here than I thought it would. She looks nice. She combs her hair with her fingers in the car, wipes at some invisible line on her lips where she has colored again, like a girl, outside them, all of this inside the car, like no one can see her, like we are not right here.

“Where is he?” she asks standing nervouse by the table looking into the the building, nervouse like for an interview. I haven’t seen that skirt on her for months.

“He’s right here.”

She looks around. I point. What, she says, she looks, she puts her hand on the piece of paper i have written on and turns it towards her, the piece of paper on which I have written his name again. She reads it and says what again, then calls me an asshole. I play with my phone. When she is done and is sitting I reach over and turn the paper back the right way, pulling it back towards my side of the tabel.

She tells me she loves me. I know she does. She thinks we should go.