Fugue # 61

- It’s inconceivable to me that ten years ago we were making choices that would make it impossible for us to be anything more than acquaintances today. That is fucked up, Em.
- Gene, that’s called life. You weren’t here. You left, you left me. What was I supposed to do?

(She goes back in her mind to the day she met him. A homecoming fraternity party, sophomore year. The afternoon light was strong and angular, and their faces were half-shadowed. Victory smiles, the smell of the grill, the taste of tap beer, the feel of fresh air, of autumn’s evening chill rising as the sun fell. And the hopeful clean flutter of the new, floating like oak leaves to the ground. She was eager to impress, profane, done-up in jeans and a sweatshirt that covered her freshman fifteen. He was cooler in jeans and a sweater and a thin gold chain. "Hey," he said. She said, "Hey." They traded heys, and that was that.)

- I know, I know. The choices I made before there was a you for me to know again, and the choices you made, placed us too far apart by the time our lives crossed. I know... and now I barely know who you are. And there is no way - No Way - for me to know who you were or who you were becoming this whole time, even if you told me every detail. Even if you showed me every picture.

(Pause)

I can see the pictures, but I didn’t take them. I can see the pictures, see what happened, but never...it’s just...it’s my fault. My timing always sucks. And now I just want to jump out of my skin and run away from myself. Run away from me and you, and me thinking about you.