“That’s Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”
You never knew this, but I have missed you more than I would like to admit
Especially on weeks when you fly back home
We used to talk mindlessly on your balcony,
Your balcony on the 15th floor, constructed of glass and steel railings that overlooked the 55 Freeway
Where the sun knew to tuck itself behind that high-rise apartment
The one that looked like yours
I still recall how hot it felt when I’d rest my elbow listening to you speak
Your words, neither pat nor insincere
Sentences, words, letters would run down your chin
Depending on your mood, letters would drop off
And the vowels would collect at the corner of your mouth
We shared shots of gin – not my thing, but yours
Your comforters held creases from our bodies following late-night video games
Call of Duty: Black Ops, game controllers tainted by greasy fingerprints
Your balcony sliding door open
None of the lights were on but the television in your bedroom
As the traffic 15 floors below us died down
You were a friend in a scene full of actors
“Touch base this, reinvent the wheel that”
Were our lines until we were able to drop our roles and the superfluous office jargon and just be twentysomething-year-olds
As the CEO flirted with the new hires
And account managers failed to take accountability
We continued to shrug our shoulders, roll our eyes, take smoke breaks, and stare into the abyss that was the corporate parking lot
While half the sales floor team congregated near that plume of smoke near the ashtray
Our lofty ambitions and deferred dreams were scraps of paper collecting at the gutter of the curb – gum wrappers, old receipts and Coke bottle lids
I met you on a Wednesday; it had to be
Two years ago when the days were golden
You caught a train to California from the Midwest
And one of the first things you did was laugh at something I said
We joked about how the weekend went with no pants on
You becoming a directionless 27-year-old law graduate
And me, an interior decorator, whose marriage was tethered to the wrong person
A Marisa Tomei-type receiving more calls from angry wives of men than from my own mother
You’ve cared for me
Knew when to ask questions
Knew when to shut the hell up
And knew when to let me be because I’d had it
Don’t tell me that the only few interests that connected us
Were cigarettes, exhausted discussions about our exes and aversion to corporate gluttony
Were you scared when I sent you that lengthy text?
About how much I miss us and how we don’t say any more than five words to each other?
This was no romance, purely platonic, but a relationship nonetheless
While our clothes stayed on
My words ran off
My heart, worn on my sleeve
And you never reciprocated the same way
Or at all…
Were the telephone wires in the city undergoing maintenance?
Did I miss smoke signals in the sky?
Should I have tried harder?
Should you have tried at all?
How did I know that when happy hours with co-workers were miserable?
You would be the only one to notice me walk away?
Go ahead – walk the plank
Walk, no stumble, into the role that we often used to crap on
I’ll be here
Jill of all trades, master of none
A generalist in a specialized world
I hate that we’ve grown apart
I hate forced small talk,
Wanting to finish your sentences, but can’t anymore,
Yups and nods and hands in pockets
Eyes that drift toward the Sparkletts water machine
The air bubbles floating to the surface
As they respond for you
Monday morning exchanges were reduced to, How was your weekend?
But this time, the pants stayed on.
What should we do?
Should we sit down and talk around the point of concern until I’m proven right?
Would you help me pick a scab that won’t heal?
Trash this friendship and start a new one?
Tell you that I think you should leave?
I remember your hazel eye with that bit of orange
The scent of bergamot inside your car
The cracked leather of your Nissan Sentra
Your week-long absence because you got Shingles
and how you quit smoking before me.
What happened?
Do you know what happened?
Does the sales floor know?
Are we playing a game of hot and cold?
Are we walking in a straight line like 3rd graders?
Is the kid behind me stepping on the back of my shoe as my sneakers fall loose?
Why does it feel like my sock keeps rolling down into my shoe?
Do I have a dryer sheet clinging to my fleece sweater and nobody is telling me?
Does this DMV line truly wrap around this building?
I can still recall the touch of the hot metal railing of your balcony as I hear you speak
As time shoves its way into everything,
I wonder if words continue to pour out of your mouth
And if the vowels still collect at the corner of your lips.
