I don’t know what the punchline is to the knock-knock of his feet. I smoke a cigarette, nonchalant in my too big black blazer, imagining the dramatic silhouette of my profile, wondering if the next knock-knock footstep is going to stop right behind me and sweep me off my feet. I smoke more than I want and then I rise, my own feet sighing because he’s not coming tonight and now today was like any other day.
When I get back, she asks me about him. I tell her we’re very different. I tell her that’s why I like him. He’s not crazy but he doesn’t blink when I tell him of my crazy. He has no idea how crazy my crazy is. Not yet. I tell her that we are not the result of an explosion of destiny. I like that; every firework love of the past has been a disaster for my heart. This time, we are not fireworks. We are candles in the dark. From afar, warm, glowing lights, but, up close, smoldering heat.
I do not know how he fights or how he drinks his coffee but I like the way he smiles when my neuroses surface, and the fragility of his double-edged ego, and the way his hand always finds me.