“Her name is Steve. I think I once loved her.” Is how I want to introduce her.
But I don’t, I hold my tongue, twitching like a snake’s and my stupid heart slithers back into place. Down boy.
“This is Steve. She’s an old friend,” I say instead.
She shakes hands and smiles, and I smile as I realize I can’t read those smiles anymore. Mine are as open as the glass window I stand before, and everyone, I mean everyone, can see the crowded street below. Honking traffic, shrieking lights, and smelly people, radiating through my grin.
She’s as cold as a hot tub when dry when we embrace, and I laugh pleasantries into the breezy hole of her black hole heart. My imagination fills in her unreadable expressions until I make myself sick.
“I haven’t changed,” I say.
“You mean ‘you’?” she offers.
“Freudian slip. You’re much prettier than before.”
“You’re the first to think so.”
“First of many. But don’t worry, first is the worst.”
I laugh, she stands there awkwardly, wondering when an old “acquaintance?” became such a freak show. And I mean it, and take my leave. I’m going to soak in my hot tub when I get back.