On the drive home from the movies,
Patty tells me about the party she’s
not throwing, about the vacation she’s
not going on, and I count the minutes
until I arrive home.
There’s something I’m afraid to say,
and I’m trying to tie it for minimum impact.
Too early, and we could both be stuck
here. Too late and I lose my chance.
The movie was about a boy who
loves boys, and we both cried at his happy
ending. I think about the girls she’s loved,
and the boys she’s loved, and none of it
makes this any easier.
The song changes, and the speakers
say love is not a choice. Patty says,
Can you believe we got tickets?
I love him. The concert is months away,
but the GPS warns me ten minutes.
The words feel too big for my body and
the longer I let them roll around in my head,
the bigger they become, the way cotton
candy collects spun sugar.
I call myself a coward, and concede defeat.
Seven minutes left, definitely not enough
time. The wrong turn she takes ticks the timer
back up to fifteen.