Between the here-and-now and the hereafter

God, it’s cold out here. 45 cigarettes later, I’m still cold and, oddly, still waiting. I remember, I never used to wait for you like this. I’d go upstairs, take a shower, read a book, take a nap, whatever. Wile away my time until the moment you entered the house, then bounding down the stairs as if to say I was missing you the whole while, and there you are.

It was different for you. You always waited here. Back against the sun-stroked but indifferent brick wall, drawn up in a crouch that was neither predatory nor wounded. Feet underneath you, exactly parallel and together as if those six square inches were all that was left of the world. I remember, or have impressions of seeing, or imagine in retrospect what it must have looked like but was too busy to notice at the time: the details: your hair framing your face and falling all in your eyes like a schoolgirl’s dream boy, your arms pulled up into the warm embrace of one of my worst sweaters and then forced over your knees, making a tent out of a sweater and the framework of your fairy skin, showing only that little slice of your face not hidden by your hair. It always reminded me how much I wished—still wish—we had been kids together.

55 cigarettes later. I’m shivering and my fingertips are blue. January in Virginia almost can’t kill you. It makes the world gray and freezes the water to your cheeks, the memories to your lips, but that’s about it.

I miss you. 80 cigarettes later and half frozen, God, I miss you.

I remember when I first saw you, in the darkness of that room. I reinvented myself as what I’d always wanted to become that day. Became the man I’d always needed to be, but was afraid to because…well, who would appreciate it? I saw You and knew the answer, and the rest went away. My friends realized they didn’t know me. I don’t know if they were sad or angry. Maybe just disappointed. I didn’t care. They never knew what to say to me, and I always knew what to say to them.

I pick up the leftover shattered pieces of what was, six hours ago, the newest and brightest device in the world of cellular technology Apple had to offer me. A phone can’t change the world. A phone can’t save a life. A phone can’t tell you nicely. A phone can’t do much of anything. I toss them into the bushes and light another cigarette.