We grab a corner booth in a coffee shop after both showing up on time. I order us a pair of fancy coffees from the hipster barista sporting an ironic t-shirt and handle bar mustache.
After a few minutes, I discover I’m a few years older and that the t-shirt isn’t so ironic after all. At least not to me. I then joke about back pain as we laugh about what events I was alive for that you weren’t: The Summer Olympics in Korea, Kirk Gibson’s walk-off home run, for some reason I end on Chernobyl, surprised I’ve made it this far without making an obscure or weird reference.
This one turns out to be both.
“Chern what?” you ask.
“Never mind,” I say.
We speak easily for the next few hours like a pair of old friends as Pieces of Spain plays faintly in the background.
Nothing seems off limits as we talk about everything and anything, tiptoeing in and around matters of the heart, namely love, but mostly the kind you lose.
We take solace in one another’s bizarre sense of humor, dreams, hang-ups and places we’d like to have our passport stamped. I tell you about how I fell for the same scam in Shanghai and Turkey as you share your near mishap edge-walking 50 stories above Toronto.
“That supposed to be fun?” I ask.
Suddenly, one of us realizes our meter’s run out of time. It’s probably mine, so we decide to walk to my car. Our rapport emboldens me to reach for your hand, but I chicken out right before we cross the street.
That would have been the perfect time, I think to myself.
For the first time there’s a silence between us. We seem to notice it at the same time but thankfully don’t comment on it. There’s a comfort in the lull as we amble through a neighborhood lined with scarlet oak trees. I know this because you tell me this as a rare summer breeze pushes a strand of hair across your face.
It seems almost orchestrated.
The streets are paved with leaves, each hued with a slightly different color of auburn. Okay, so I guess it’s fall.
When we finally arrive at my car, I see a meter maid writing me a ticket. I start to bicker when you notice she’s the same woman whose life you saved that summer you worked as a lifeguard.
She embraces you before ripping up my ticket and tossing it among the leaves. The bright white paper sticks out among the rust colored petals.
For a moment, I’m upset by her total indifference to littering. Then I realize you’ve just saved me $45.
She tells me I can park in the same spot for free as long as it’s a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday afternoon.
“But you gotta treat this girl right,” she adds.
I smile.
After the two of you catch up for a few minutes, she hops in her ticket mobile and drives away. Just a few blocks off in the distance we see she’s made one of her frequent stops to issue another ticket.
That sucks, I think to myself.
There’s a moment, mostly awkward, as we stand by my car. I break the silence by telling you I’d like to see you again as you playfully feign disinterest.
“I’d like that very much,” you finally say.
Music to my ears.
A few days go by before we meet back up again. Not sure where but this time there’s no meter maid or ironic t-shirts.
Just the two of us trying to figure it out together.
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