Signifying nothing

You wouldn't remember because you weren't there. But I do.

I was worn out from working all morning under the summer sun. I went to CVS after work to use their bathroom, gripped in sweat and anticipation, trying to freshen myself up as best as I could.

We were supposed to meet at your mom's flower shop for lunch. Remember? Of course not.

I got there and dicked around by the rhododendrons, feigning interest in a display. I saw your mom instantly--she looked pretty just like you, with a few extra years on her back.

I waited thirty minutes and when the staff started looking at me like I was a shoplifter, I approached your mom and asked about you.

You were sick, she said. In bed all day. You weren't going to show up--I must have turned bright red. If only you'd told me that BEFORE I drove twenty miles out of the way, just to see you.

I flirted with your mom for a while and asked her how much a single rose was and whether or not she could give it to you with a message to "feel better soon."

I drove home with nothing on my mind but you.

I think you liked to say yes just to see what I would do. If only I'd been wise enough to stop asking.

I waited around so long just to hear you tell me that I'd wasted everything. That I'd taken the blind plunge, assuming you'd catch me. Nothing but spikes and dragons waited at the bottom.

God I hate still having to carry all that around.