36: the oft repeated number,
mentioned in passing
and jingled out during repeated conversations,
as the amount of time he’ll be spending
before jetting off again,
halfway around the world.
And then he says 18.
But 36? I ask.
Bad math he says.
More than 24, less than 36.
My pain spikes.
A surprising, unforeseen reaction.
I’ve been fine but this seems like too much.
I want to ask him many questions
but he’s tired
and it seems selfish,
so I remain almost silent
as the car full of people shout over me
with a flashed dick pic nearly killing them all.
Later, as I struggle to rectify this disparity
between what I expected and what will be,
the distance between what I believed I felt
and what overwhelmed me in the conversation,
as tears stream down my face,
the telephone rings.
He’s sorry.
He knew what I was feeling.
He always knows.
We’ll have more than a few stolen moments,
despite the never ending ticking.
And he can’t wait to be in my arms again.
Less than 36;
more than enough.
Some people are never so lucky.
Written by Jason Wright
August 24, 2018
For Aaron