Hillery Occasionally

You’re on the street—loud—calling me out. You haven’t seen me since that party, months ago, when I told you we weren’t really friends. I see you first and resolve to say hello even if you don’t see me, but you turn at the last moment and double take. I say hey without breaking stride. You say my name and I turn as I pass and say hey again. That’s when you get loud, calling my name. I turn all the way around and say, “I said hey,” as I keep walking. You call me again, louder. I backtrack and repeat, “I said hey.”

You are dumb. I shake your hand. You pull me in to kiss my cheek saying, “Since when do we do that?” Since we’re not really friends, I think. Since we’re like magnets—if we’re not on top of each other we’re best apart. Since I look amazing tonight and you’ve been thinking about me these months, but the mental picture was aged and fraying.

“Have I done something,” you ask, “to deserve this? To make you not come and see me anymore?” I never liked this bar and you know that, I think. And yet what I want to say is so much better, such a perfect retort it’s almost as if you’ve set me up. What I want to say is, “Well, you got married.”

I say, “No.” I say, “You’re not usually out here, but I walk this way all the time.” And haven’t I imagined this moment on all those other nights, carefully scanning the crowd outside as I passed…

I say, “You have a good night,” as I walk away and you watch me go.