“How are you?” he says. Such a generic question. One that requires only a generic answer. “Fine” would suffice. Or the wordier but no less basic, “I’m good. How are you?” with the question repeated at the end for good measure, to insinuate a conversation that is long overdue to end…
But I have so much more within me.
I’ve missed you. It’s so good to see you. I’ve forgotten how beautiful you are when you smile. When did you get back? I hate that you ever left. Skype wasn’t enough. Facebook wasn’t enough. Email, long-distance phone calls weren’t enough. I need you in my life. I want to touch you, kiss you one more time. And again for however man more times you’ll allow. How long will you be staying? Is it for good this time? Can we pick up where we left off (how about that kiss again)? Are you still single? I am. Never even thought about another man since you. You’re my lover who never was, but if you’re here to stay, maybe you can become. Will you? Tell me. Take my hand. Do that thing I’ve dreamt of for the last two years. Let’s get married.
I struggle to string together coherent sentences on my tongue, to push them from my mouth, bind on my voice, and give them a pitch that’s higher than a whisper so that he can hear and reply with words that will kill me the way I want to die.
Then I realize…
“Struggling,” I say. “I am struggling…”
Hopefully, he will ask me why.