If I could go back in time, I would've written the good-bye note in erasable ink—now it's permanently on the title page of the book I didn't give him. I probably wouldn't have bought the book either, because who wants a book that was meant for another? And I would probably take back the late-night conversation I had with him in October when I offered to either detract from his sadness or add to it, and first told him about The Blue Day Book (which I now own, with his name and my handwriting inside). If I could go back . . .
When I showed up at his door tonight, the first person I saw was female. And she wasn't exiting his apartment to leave for the night, she was exiting to walk me to my car I'd parked seconds ago on the street. She wore yellow galoshes and a spaghetti-strap tank top. Her bra straps were black, just like her hair and just like the trash bag of refugee clothes she carried while I stumbled along with empty hands behind him and her. The him had his arms full of another bag of clothes for my foreign friends. I managed to make small talk about his couches and cleaning to get ready for the move. He asked me where I worked again that got me collecting clothes. I said that helping the refugees had nothing to do with my job, that I do it for fun, remember? He said, Oh that's right. He looked at my face twice, but our eyes saw each other's only once, back in the stairwell for three. Good-bye.
10 months ago
