“You can send us postcards” she says. I can sense the brightness in her eyes. Her pupils dilated as if she’s figured it all out.

“What! Of course, not” I say. Her eyes dim a little but that light; it’s still there.

“Or you can write letters” she says. “You don’t even have to add an address. We’ll get letters somedays. And somedays we won’t get any” she adds. Hope teaches us all the wrong things.

I don’t speak a word. But she knows I disagree. “That’s not how it works” I say. “Then I guess it’s better to die than disappear” she replies. I take a sip from my coffee. “At least then people won’t have to wait” she continues. I put my cup down.

“But if one day you find yourself thinking about them, you can still hope that they’re out there, somewhere; doing what they always wanted to do” I say. She tightens her grab around that coffee cup she’s holding. “Some people just wait. Strangely enough they do” she says. “What if I’m the one who’s outside with a getaway car?” she asks as if my words never got through to her.

“Then run” I say. “Make a grand escape!”

She quietly drinks her coffee.

“Who knows maybe one day you’ll be taking a sip from that latte you like, talking about your favorite book with that person sitting next to you in some distant coffee shop. You’ll look across and maybe see me listening to some music as I hold that book of yours in my hand, gazing at the sky nonchalantly as I always do. You’ll feel I look familiar but you won’t recognize me right away. And by the time you do, I’d have left you that book I’ve finished reading.” I say as I look past you.

“Nonetheless it’s beautiful, right?” I ask.

She puts her cup down, whispers “yes”.

Somehow, I can sense the smell of freshly brewed coffee fill up the air around us. We wonder why we didn’t notice it sooner.

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Postcards | December 13