Modern romance

Mornings have become gray and brisk--I take one step outside, and the wind creeps up my coat sleeves. I'm walking to the cafeteria for an apple and fruit juice, and she's dyed her hair since I saw her a year ago. It's orange now; bold, but it looks good on her. (But of course you'd say that.) She's twenty feet away and her back's to me and she doesn't see me. Walking down the sidewalk like it's no thing. Like she'd walked down this sidewalk every day since she left and never came back. It's just as well that she doesn't turn around. I'd be tongue-tied, too happy or too angry, too sad or too surprised to say much.

The wind picks up, and I shove my hands in my pockets. Two days from now I'll be drinking whiskey with Z and Her Ex, and Her Ex'll say, "Guess who was in town," and Z will shoot him a Look, and I'll say, "Haven't a clue," and think, "I dare you, I just dare you." And the wind roars, and a curtain of maple leaves, orange, red, falls between us. Two years ago I thought falling out of love was beautiful, and I thought I could excise her from my heart like a chunk of plaque. And the wind sighs, and the curtain draws to the side, and I see her through an autumn speckled filter. And tomorrow she'll leave this town again, and I won't see her, just like always. But she's never been more beautiful that she is right now. And this is the third goodbye I'll never say. And maybe that's not okay, but maybe it is.