We’re on a park bench, facing a lake, and though her body is positioned forward, away from me, I can see from the corner of my eyes that her head is turned in my direction. She’s burning holes in me with her eyes, figuring something out, so I turn and meet her gaze.
I look in and she looks back and though we’re physically close, there is a distance. She holds an expression that’s fixed on the line somewhere between anger and joy, and I don’t intend to betray the intensity of this connection.
There was a time when we were obsessed – with ourselves, with each other, with the world. We couldn’t have enough, almost as if existence itself depended on the guarantee of doing, which was no guarantee at all.
We had each other, each with no commitments, yet with the unspoken promise between us that there would be no room for anyone else, no matter the situation.
Hope beaming out for an audience, like red blinking lights communicating across the darkness of the night sky.
We held no illusions about the world, and we still don’t. We knew that it was brutal and callous and simple, so the idea of making real and gimmick-less moments with each was important. Is important.
There is a chill and as we maintain a closed circuit, minute by passing minute, we come to terms with the truth.
It’s too late.
The cold months are on their way and the Fall is about to take over with its short days and even longer shadows. The swimming pools are just beginning to go unused and the leaves are starting to pile up on the top of blue canvas covers. Walks around the block at night, hand in hand, will soon become contemplative lonely journeys with our arms crossed behind our backs, shuffling away in silence, holding on to the present as if there is no promise of a future.
We outgrew each other.
We are outgrown.