Farragut North Station | Connecticut and K

We reunite by accident on the street after nearly eight years. You at your end of the sidewalk and me at mine, waiting to stomp to work through the crosswalk in our opposing herds. I see you first. Shout that old nickname and you look up from your phone, nostalgia snatching you in its alluring grip.

The light changes. We meet in the middle of Connecticut Ave, stop face-to-face. Car radios mumble, (NPR), engines groan with impatience. Pedestrians shove on, pissed. The distance between past and present: softer bellies and arms. Fine lines carved by all we hoped for and did not become. Your laugh is the same. You are the same. The smooth scar on your jaw curved like a fishing hook. My fingers dance in my pockets, desperate to run across it, and you point out a cherry blossom tree spreading a blanket of shade across the pavement. “They’re your favorite,” you say. You remember.

The traffic light turns yellow, swings heavy in the breeze. Rushing, rushing. Shoulders bump, elbows bruise. Family? Yes. You? Of course. We will get them together. Your wife and kids, my husband and kids. I agree, it’s a date, though we have set no date, and as your back begins east and mine heads west, out of nowhere I still love you- what is time?