If I Say Good-Bye I Will Never See You Again

I sat on my stoop and smoked a cigarette.

Someone was plucking a banjo nearby. The song was faint, the notes leaping and tumbling into one another. A long-haired cat, coloured like dried flowers, slept on my neighbour's porch. Sprinklers tossed water across the lawns and sidewalks. The clouds were thick and soupy, mixing with the fading orange light.

Two men walked by. One pointed at my crooked patio and said, "water damage." The other pulled at his thick moustache and asked his companion what he said. "Water damage," he uttered as he looked at my patio, and then at me. They continued walking.

The phone rang a few times. I washed the floors, made potato salad, bought wine and paper plates. I called Lisa.

"What's up?"
"In three hours I will no longer be in my twenties."
"You sound all melancholy."
"I realized while I was cutting potatoes that my twenties will be gone."
"You had a good run. It's only going to get better."

We talked about literature. I explained the trajectory my life had taken. I congratulated myself by repeating all the wonderful things others had said about me. I got excited by the planning and the dreaming.

Night slipped into the city. Tomorrow, friends will arrive. The house was clean and the food was cooked, cooling in the fridge.

I was ready.