And when you finally meet again, it’s accidental: the rain is tapering off and the wind is dying down, and everyone’s slowly making their way out of the coffee houses and twenty-four hour convenience stores, and the sidewalk is back to the throng of the usual end-of-day chaos. You spot them sitting in a corner of an alfresco eatery; he’s sipping a drink with his eyes fixed on his phone while she’s murmuring something to him as she flips through the newspaper.
You go over to say hello. There’s a wry smile on his lips and a delighted one on hers, and you can’t help but laugh and all is right with the world.
“I didn’t know you guys were in town,” you tell them, and he looks surprised.
“I thought I texted you,” he says, eyes flicking to his phone again, as if he could confirm that he has informed you, and for a moment it feels very much like it did when you were younger — him making excuses and you never buying them.
But you’re older now, so you tell him it’s fine instead. “I missed it, maybe,” you say easily. “You know how it is.”
“So what are you up to now?” he asks, as the seconds tick on and awkwardness threatens.
The woman, your friend — the girl who was like you but not — sighs, pushing the newspaper towards him. “That’s what I was trying to get you to read,” she tells him, and she gives you an apologetic shrug and you laugh again.
“You never pay attention to anything I do,” you say, half teasing, half a reprimand.
His smile falters and so does yours. You excuse yourself and tell them it’s great to see them but it’s getting late, and hopefully you’ll make it to the next get-together, whenever that may be.
You won’t, but you know they don’t really expect you to anyway.
[Today’s prompt is fragile; connect that however you will.]