I remember smoking a cigarette down the street from the bookstore, waiting for you to clock out so that we could have dinner. Standing in the middle of the pedestrian street, I watched your figure manifest into a final form, like a ghost, among the crowd. You walked over to me with a smile, never letting the corners of your mouth relax until you came close enough to speak to me. In another life, we're already living in that brownstone duplex near Hamilton Park, talking about literature or discussing our marriage the following Spring. In this reality, we are ghosts, and you are no longer walking towards me. I'm no longer waiting for you to appear.
Perhaps there is a planet kinder than this one. Maybe there are happy conclusions to sad stories in rejected manuscripts that will never see the printing press. Imagine: our daughter reading that book, on that planet, in another dimension.