January 5, 2015

2015 might be my year.

     In a train that led us out of Boston, we sat together on a sloping bench near the sliding door.
     "So, what made you decide to leave?" I asked.
     He scratched the back of his head and raised both eyebrows the way my dad does when he's about to give me financial advice. "Uh," he breathed, "I don't, uh. I don't really know, actually," he shrugged,  "Sorry, that's not really an answer. I just--I don't have anything tying me down at home, and I got this job offer that would've been too hard to refuse. So, I took it," he paused for a moment, stroked his third day scruff. "And, uh. I guess I'm going." My forehead creased. "I think I just started realizing that I'm not going to be in this spot forever, you know? Like, I'm twenty-four. And I love the city, so I'm going for a while. To get it out of my system, before, you know," he motioned with his hands, "a wife. Kids. Mortgage."
     "Right," I nodded, "sounds like you know what you want."
     "I love it back home, but--"


Oh, nothing, just wanted to ask you if you remember that episode of The Office where Jim comes back from Stamford. 

I had lunch with an old friend yesterday, and that episode repeated in my mind.


The train door slid open, jolting us both. My curls, fallen from humidity, stuck to my lipstick. I looked up at him without regrouping.
     "But you want to go," I finished. He nodded.
     "I do. I just want to try leaving," breaking our contact, his eyes moved to the ground, "and see if I come back."

     We stood up in unison and exited, leaving the conversation in the car, but I'll never forget it.