I’m writing your name on a bar napkin, the edges sopping from beer glass sweat. I missed work three days in a row––keep calling in sick but I’m not sure what’s wrong. Maybe gravity just stopped holding me down.
 
This morning I passed the coffee shop, the one where I first saw you. I tried not to slow down––didn’t want to look, didn’t want to take the chance that you might be there after all this time––but I did.
 
Inside was an old man with an old baseball hat. He wasn’t wearing socks but he looked happy. Maybe we looked that happy once…