She was expressive, a natural story-teller,
and had wild swings of emotion.
Her Italian blood, she would explain.
I could never be sure what antic she would be up to
or what comment might escape her lips.
At the coffee shop, she leaned in close.
Whispered, look at that guy behind you.
Look how he’s taking that bottle cap off that bottle.
WHAT KIND OF A HUMAN TAKES A BOTTLE CAP OFF A BOTTLE
LIKE THAT MAN OVER THERE?
I went to her house one night for dinner.
Lordy, she’s an excellent cook.
But she was distracted.
She was having a fight with her boyfriend
and he wasn’t returning her texts or phone calls.
Dinner was served, the Chianti poured, Italian music on the stereo.
We toasted our good friendship.
She took a sip of her wine, set down her glass,
hammered her fist on the dining table.
I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
Without another word, she grabbed her car keys
and left the house. I waited fifteen minutes for her to
come back before eating. I did the dishes, put the leftovers
in her fridge. And cuddled up on her couch with her bottle
of wine and Italian music.
When she hadn’t returned by midnight, and the bottle of wine
was empty, I assumed she and her boyfriend had made up.
Before leaving, I left her a note: Let me know you’re alive.
And then, as an afterthought, I added:
WHAT KIND OF A HUMAN…?!
Time passes. Relationships change.
I miss my dear old friend. She stopped being
friends with me because her new husband didn’t
want her going for coffee alone with another man.
But I was here first! No matter.