Apr 23
B3. The Question
Today, as he leaves, he hesitates at the door.
Turns around. “See you tomorrow?” he asks.
As if it were a question. As if I might not be here.
“See you tomorrow,” I say.
He nods. Smiles. Leaves.
I stand there and think: He asked.
Not said. Asked.
As if it mattered to him whether I would be here tomorrow.
All evening I repeat his voice: “See you tomorrow?”
That small rise at the end. That uncertainty.
And I wonder: Does he want to know if I will come — or if he should come?
Whether what is between us matters to him as much as it does to me.
Tomorrow I will be here. As always.
But perhaps — perhaps I should ask too.
written with Miran & Emil Lichtrand
