She knew for a certainty that
the shortest distance from here to there
would be the one route he
was incapable of finding.
It had always been like this,
impatient to get somewhere, he
trying to accommodate her, yet
still finding the most circuitous route.
He was always embarrassed, apologized
profusely until the day the solution appeared.
For the first time she wanted to meander
to get there eventually, to see what
they might find along the way, to stop
for a good reason and for no reason.
And that was the day he discovered
that all you needed to do
was follow a straight line.
She said, “As we get older
we start to come from the place
we only wished we were from,
and the place from which we came,
becomes the place from which
we are now glad we never visited.”
He said, “As I age, my youth changes,
and the things I say I did are increasingly,
the things I wish I had done,
and what I did and wish I hadn’t
are things that now never happened.”
She smiled, “it’s hard to believe
that now we never met in that one place
neither of us says we have been,
and yet here we are
in the midst of our created history.”
I stumbled in love
with you, she said
because I’ve always
had this great fear
of falling. It must
come from my childhood,
though I can’t recall
any specific incident,
just the deep bruises
my parents left
when they fell,
out of the love
I thought had
to last forever.
He is certain that
the sky is always blue
and when it seems
cloudy it is just that
Magritte has risen
from his grave and
brush in hand,
painted the sky and clouds.
She scoffs at the idea
knowing full well
the clouds are merely
rice paper cutouts
floating on a gentle breeze.
As he begins to speak, she realizes
this conversation will, as usual,
devolve into a monologue.
It is always this way, and
with a finely honed skill,
she, eyes wide open,
slips out of this moment.
She is certain, correctly so,
he will never notice.
He will fill in her nods, assume
she has heard and agreed,
and this pleases him greatly.
It is always like this, the script
unvarying, it is simply
words, words, words.
She knows this and lives with it
more from Newton’s law,
her own Yorick awaiting
a Hamlet she knows is gone.
There will come a time
she says, when all of this
will matter greatly, the question
is how you will know
that moment has arrived.
I assume, he said, it will
announce itself, or at least
make its presence known.
No doubt, she replied, you
will search for it, but
just like me, you
will find it gone.
He screwed up his face into the scowl
that fairly shouted to all, “Don’t Ask!”.
She knew better but knew also that she
had no choice, “What’s the matter now?”
“It’s just,” he said, softening a bit, “that
I so seldom get the weather I need,
much less the weather I want, it’s never
the sort I ask, no matter how nicely I put it.”
She threw caution to the wind, smiled
and said, “It isn’t, of course, that the weather
isn’t what you ask, it most certainly
almost always is. It is simply that the weather
is perfect and you always show up
in precisely the wrong place to enjoy it.”