"Can you believe he’d say that?" she asks. "I was stunned! No one else laughed, but I thought it was hysterical. I almost died in the middle of the staff meeting! It’s not just me, right? You see it, too?"

I smile, my head near hers. She's sitting on a red-checked blanket wearing a blue-checked dress.

She always brought a blanket when she visited me. We'd sit here for hours. Sometimes looking at photos. Sometimes in silence. Today she brought a little tumbler of wine, which she clung to with one hand while the other sliced through the air that way it did when she was a little drunk and a little silly.

"That’s crazy," I say, not sure what to add.

"I knew you’d get it," she says, her laughter subsiding. "You always understand my sense of humor."

"What’s not to get?" I ask, rhetorically. "You’re smart. Funny. You always make me laugh. Plus you’re never mean-spirited. You’re easily the nicest person I’ve ever known."

She smiles that way she does when a memory of the past creeps it's way to the present.

"I think about how we met all the time," she says, after a pause. "God, that was so random. I didn’t even like coffee back then. Don’t know why I stopped in. Talk about luck. Did I ever tell you, I told Lucy about you when I got to class, and she said you probably just hung out there every day, waiting to meet girls? She was certain you were a creep! She tried to convince me that you used the same routine on everyone you met, but I defended you."

"I never liked Lucy," I say.

"I know you never liked Lucy!" she adds, at the same time, making me chuckle.

I stand, looking down at her, lost in her own world.

"I miss you," I say, my emotions bumbling up. "I hate being apart. I never wanted it to be this way. I hope you know."

She looks sad. She always looks sad lately.

"This really sucks," she says, finally, her eyes cast downward toward. "I don’t blame you for anything, but I HATE this. Hate that I feel this way. I wake up every morning hoping it’s just a bad dream and that you’ve come home. I’ve been trying to stay strong with everything, all the changes. I know you want that. But it’s too much most of the time. I’m not sure I can keep going."

If I could cry, I would.

"Don’t say that …" I say.

"I know I have to, but it’s hard," she adds. "You’re everywhere I look these days, and nowhere, at the same time."

We stay there, in the quiet. I'm not sure what to say. I was never good at saying the thing that needed to be said when it was needed to be said.

There's a long silence. It feels like ages. I can hear kids laughing a few blocks away and the sound of what I think is a garbage truck backing up. The wind gusts, her brown hair flitting in front of her eyes. I notice she is crying, silently.

Finally, she reaches into her purse, pulling out flowers, placing them on the ground in front of my grave marker.

"I love you," she says, so soft I can barely hear it. "Know that. Please. And I always will. No matter what. You’re forever in my heart, in my thoughts. I just hope, wherever you are, you know I’m still here; I won’t let you go."

***

I was 34 when I died. It's been two months now. I try not to let it get me down. Some people do not live as long. Some people live much longer but never really live at all. I was lucky.

One second I was there, the next I wasn’t. A flash. A moment. That was all it took.

It did not hurt. Dying was painless. Like stepping into a warm bath. One foot in, and half the work is done. The rest is just letting go.

I make it sound easy: letting go. But that is the hard part. Moving on. Checking out. Life is too damn great. The world is beautiful. Memories are forever. A life spent kicking and screaming. A life of taxes and bad Thai food and cold and angst and worry. A life spent dreading the next morning – then suddenly there are no more mornings. And all you want is one more.

You finally get the meaning of life once it is taken from you. That’s the gut punch.

I still feel. It’s a reflex. Love. Loneliness. Despair. It’s like an echo of a previous emotion, but it is still there.

Echoes. I guess that's what keeps me here. Why I can't move on.

***

I saw her today. She was like a ghost. I get the irony of that. But, still, she was. A memory. Something distant and tangible but definitely not real.

It had been weeks since I last saw her, ever since I left the cemetery. I'm not sure why I left. I just did.

Then I wandered around, searching for something I couldn't name. I visited a lot of the places we once frequented. I'm not sure why. I'd just stand there and stare at the people and wish they’d stare back.

I try to remember what it was like to be alive. And I can. Barely.

That's when I see her. She's crossing the street at the coffee shop where we first met. She's either going to work or coming from it, wearing that blue suit she'd wear when she had a big meeting.

I almost say hello. Stop. Let’s talk. It was an impulse. Because it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn't hear me. But I almost do it anyway.

She looks sad in a way she hadn't just a few weeks before. The beauty is still there, but it hides a lot of pain. I assume that is because of me. I know that look. I caused her a lot of pain when I was alive, and it did not stop when I left.

As she nears me, she hesitates -- for a moment, a split second. I feel it. It's a reaction. A small one. But something. I KNOW it was something. It still hurts. For us both.

***

I came back to our house. Where we lived. I held out as long as I could. Six months. Maybe seven. I didn’t want to, but I was drawn there.

I spent days on the lawn, looking in, trying to not go through the door. She left and came back, every day. But I just stood there. I just stared at the dancing lights inside, trapped somewhere between the past and the present.

THEN

"I think this is yours," she said, approaching my table. "My name’s not 'Pete.'"

"Neither is mine," I said with a laugh, taking the coffee. "But, yeah, this my drink. Thanks. They’re, uh, not very good here."

She lingered by my table that way people do when they are not in a hurry to leave. "I agree," she said, flashing the first of a million smiles. "It’s like they’re trying to be bad!"

"I know!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically. "And they’re SOOOO good at it."

"Right?" she said, laughing. "If they sold 'Bad Customer Service' here instead of coffee, they’d have lines around the corner."

We both laugh until we don't. She extends her hand. "Hi, I'm ..."

NOW

And then, like that, I'm inside the house.

That is where I once slept. That is where we made dinner. That is where I proposed to her. That is where I fell and broke my neck and died. And that is where she found me, a lifeless body, and cradled me and screamed and cried until she had no more tears.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Not true. All I saw was the fucking stairs. Then the ceiling. Then I was dead and standing here, looking down at myself.

But now that I'm officially dead, ironically, the past is all around me, floating by. Every memory. Every moment.

THEN

"You promise you aren’t peeking!?" she said.

"I swear!" I said, feeling her waving her hand in front of my face to test me.

"OK," she said. "Because if you are, I’ll take it back."

I'd never met a woman who loved surprises more. The bigger, the more elaborate, the better. Luckily I had never spoiled a surprise by learning about it in advance, but I'd sworn to myself that if I ever did, I'd keep my goddamned my shut. I couldn't steal this from her.

She led me by the hand, out the front door, the cool of the winter air shivering my coat-less body.

"All right. Open!"

In front of me was a shiny, vintage convertible. The kind you see in movies starring James Dean.

"What is this?" I said, the practical one. "How could you afford ..."

"Don’t get too excited; I didn't buy it. I just borrowed it from a guy I work with for a few days. But I thought we could go up the coast for the weekend. You know, cruise with the top down."

"Well, it's winter ..." I said.

"Don't ruin it!" she said, laughing. "We can turn the heat on."

I was at a loss of words but not emotions. An unfamiliar place for me to be. Finally I just wrapped my hand around her waist and pulled her tight.

"I … don’t know what to say," I managed. "This is the best birthday I ever had. Seriously. You’re ... awesome. I don’t deserve ..."

NOW

No, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes when you die. That would be easy. A flash is quick.

Instead, your life tortures you. It chokes you. It taunts you, as real as when it first happened. Your life lingers like a shadow you can’t shake.

I sit next to her. I lie beside her while she sleeps, too. Cooks. Cleans. Whenever she’s home, I’m by her side. Waiting. Hoping she feels me here.

She doesn't, of course. Feel me. But she talks to herself when she sleeps, and sometimes, I swear she is talking to me.

She still has our photos up. Even the newest ones look older. Fading. I am surrounded by memories of me. Our life is on constant display.

THEN

"You sure about this?" I asked, wanting to make sure this was her dream, too.

"Yes. 100 percent."

"Because it doesn’t have to be this one. I don’t want you to think …"

"Will you stop?," she said, finally looking at me. "THIS is the house. We both agree. OK? Not the next one or the one before. This. One. Let’s just do it."

We had been standing in the driveway for about an hour weighing the pros and cons. Finally, I admitted I really, really wanted it. She said she did, too. But, like always, when I got what I wanted, I was suddenly not sure.

"But it costs so much," I said, trying to talk us out of the thing I wanted, or trying to test her in some weird way. "We will be paying until we’re …"

"Until we are two old folks STILL living together in this beautiful house?" she said, grabbing my hands. "So? Is that a bad fate? To grow old together in a place we love, until one day, it's ours?"

"We could start a family here," I said, allowing her enthusiasm to pave over my fear.

"We WILL start a family here," she corrected me. "We won’t regret this moment. But if we say no, we will. I know it."

NOW

They say the past makes sense with time and distance. But that’s all I have now, and I … just … feel lost. Angry. Frustrated.

I can’t move on, and I can’t be present. So I wallow in the pain of yesterday, caught in this slowly simmering sea of rage from which I can’t seem to escape.

She went on her first date tonight. It has been a year, from what I can gather. Joyce said she needed to get back “out there.”

The guy took her to a restaurant in Little Italy; I found out later when she called Joyce with the news. I wanted to go with her, but I can't seem to leave the house anymore.

She was polite but told Joyce she did not like him. There was no spark.

I'm relieved. I want her to move on. But I also don’t. Not really.

***

She has seen Paul eight times. He is a new guy. It has been three years since I died. I have watched men come and go, but he is the only one who has stuck.

Paul is a nice guy, from what everyone says.

He works in a furniture store. Maybe he owns it. I don’t know. He always seems happy and kind. It does not make it easier. I knew she’d find another man; I just didn’t want her to find a better one.

For Christmas, he buys her a trip to the Bahamas. She squeals and leaps up and gives him a big hug. She always wanted to go, but we could never afford it.

He asks if she is happy, and she says yes, and I die a little bit more. He calls her "baby," and I wish I could punch him.

Luckily, she rarely brings Paul to our place. Most of the time she goes to meet him. A few times she does not come home at night. I seethe and spin and feel the rage building inside of me. Even though I know I shouldn't.

She needs this. Deserves it. But, still, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.

***

Paul asks her to marry him. She says yes. She jumps and wraps her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to reach him. They kiss. They plan. I seethe.

He is moving into our house in the suburbs, the one with the fence that I never got around to painting, but you just KNOW he will. They'll probably get a dog, because Paul is not allergic. I bet he will do woodworking in the garage when he's not volunteering at the orphanage, or whatever.

He will cut the grass and clean the kitchen and put up the Christmas tree. He will have my life, and I cannot do anything about it.

He will sleep in my bed and be with my wife, and I will just be a tourist. A visitor.

He keeps telling her how much he loves her. I hate Paul.

Why am I still here? This is torture.

***

We visit my grave today. She goes there, and I do, too. It turns out, I guess, that's the only other place I can go.

I had not been out of the house in years.

"I’m sorry I don’t visit as much anymore," she says, crying a bit, but not nearly as much as before. "I’ve tried to find the time, but it’s not easy. … God, I feel guilty … like I’ve let you down … but then I tell myself you’d want me to move on. You only ever wanted me to be happy. But, still, I can’t help but miss you."

It was the first time in a long time she had talked to me, directly to me. When I first came back home, she'd still occasionally talked to me, from time to time, as if I was still there. But that ended when she met Paul.

She says she's getting married. That she's in love. That I would like the guy she's marrying, but I already know I don't. She says she's sorry, and I think she should be.

She says she misses me and that she feels guilty. She cries more.

I try to tell her I did not want her to marry Paul, but nothing comes out. I just stand there, wishing I was in the grave not over it.

She leaves me flowers, and we leave.

***

I've gotten stronger with time. It's been years, but I can finally do things now when I'm really angry.

Sometimes, when Paul is sleeping, I stand over him and try to choke him.

It rarely works. But sometimes it does. He wakes up coughing and sputtering, and she gets him water and comforts him. But I don't care. I love it.

I feel great. Really great. Like I accomplished something.

In the kitchen, I smash plates and glasses and sometimes open cabinets. She and Paul are scared by, but it’s the only way I can show how angry I am. How discontent.

I'm stuck here, watching them, every day. It’s painful. They did this.

I'm always jealous. Angry. I spend most of my time seething. I barely remember who I used to be.

***

She hired someone to do a séance, which did nothing. I was still there. A priest blessed the house, but I was still there. They put up cameras and took photos -- just like those ghost hunting shows on TV that we used to watch -- but they saw nothing. I was still there, though.

I've tormented them with my rage for years, now. I can't see it ending. It's like a faucet I can't turn off.

"I know you can hear me," she says, speaking directly to me for the first time in ... I don't know. Ages? A lifetime?

She says my name. My actual name. It startles me. Frightens me. Not JUST because it had been so long since anyone said it, but because I'd never heard her say it with such ... venom.

She'd never hated me before.

"I know it’s you," she says. "I didn’t want to believe it. But I’m not a fool. Paul knows it’s you, too, but he hasn’t said it."

Her anger builds slowly, leaking out. She gathers herself, her voice low and loud at the same time.

"I want you to listen to what I’m saying: You HAVE to go. LEAVE US ALONE! Leave ME alone. Do you HEAR me? What do I need to say to make you stop? That I don’t LOVE you anymore? This isn’t your home anymore! … Why are you doing this?"

She breaks down in tears; full-body sobs. She is tired. She looks older. She looks frail. She has not slept in days. Weeks?

This is me. I did this. My jealousy and rage and anger destroyed the last thing I had to cling to, her love for me.

"Please ..." she begs, in between sobs.

For the first time in forever, I feel something other than anger. I feel ... everything, all at once. All the emotions. Compassion. Shame. Regret. Remorse. Guilt. Sadness.

They come at me like a reflex. Like a burst.

I used to be human. I used to be real. I used to love something -- someone -- other than my own pain.

So I stop. No smashing things. No rage. No choking. No more. I bottle whatever is there and bury it deep.

I love her. Still. I don't want to forget again.

But ... I'm still here.

***

I've been dead longer than I was alive.

She is older, now. Still beautiful, but older than my parents were when they died. She had surgery last fall and was in the hospital for two weeks.

Paul is old, too. He has a bad hip. He is on blood thinners.

They never had children. They never got a dog. They just lived together, loving each other. Every day.

I have watched their romance unfold for decades. Whatever I tried to do to stop it just made their love stronger.

***

I'm a distant memory. A flickering image. A chill that barely gives you pause.

She will die soon. I will lose her. Her health is in decline, just like Paul's was before he passed. I was there when he died. I saw it happened. She mourned him longer than she mourned me.

I realize that when she dies, so will I. Again. There is no one left who loved me, who remembered me.

Then what? I want desperately to move on to ... something else.

What happens to a memory when no one is left to remember it?

***

I don’t know where they are now that they’ve died, but I’m sure they’re together.

Paul was her true love -- the love of her life -- not me. It's true.

I'm no longer haunted by my past; I'm haunted by there's. I close my eyes and see them laughing. Their moments. Their memories. Their love.

He devoted his life to her for 37 years, with a depth and understanding I could not fathom.

When you think about it, I was just a supporting character in her life. I moved the story forward. I was the guy in the movie you had to get past to get to the real love story. I was an anecdote that gave their past depth, a richness mine never had.

I realize this as I sit alone in this suburban tomb.

Then it hits me: The thing that has kept me here, all these years ... is me. Not her. Not Paul. I was a ghost, yes, but I haunted myself.

I wanted to stay. Pain was my excuse. I warped and twisted my love into an anchor that kept me tethered to this life.

All this hits me in the darkness of our old house, long after it’s too late to fix the pain I caused.

In the end, I became a monster that refused to let go long after she needed me to. I felt entitled to my anger, instead of grateful for her love. I lingered far too long.

I accept my mistakes, and I release the anguish. The hurt. The self loathing. The memories.

I let go of Her, for the first time since she died, since I died.

I feel the flood of the past cease, and I’m just here. Present.

The chains snap, and I’m free.

I see a light now. It's distant but warm. It comforts me. I feel peace and love and grace.

The house fills with this light. It calls to me, and my heart answers it, freeing myself from these shadows. I’m not frightened or alone. I’m at peace, even though I do not know what's next.

Whatever it is, I hope there’s love.

I blink.

I blink, and I am there, with you, at the beginning. Our first date, I think. Maybe the second. You look young. Healthy. It’s 20 years earlier. We are kids, poor in life but rich in hope.

You're wearing the blue dress I loved, and your hair is up. Your nails are red. You stopped painting your nails at some point. I'm not sure when, but I think I know why.

I feel overwhelmed to be in this moment again, not sure why or how. I just stare at you, eyes wide, jaw slack.

I smile, and you smile. Feeling awkward, you kiss me. "What?" you say, seeing the puzzled look on my face.

"I'm just happy," I say. "I can't believe I’m here."

You smile and kiss me again. This time you mean it. My hand touches your cheek, and you lean into it. You're real. This is real.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm some time else. We're fighting. I'm in the middle of yelling something. Your face is red. Your nails are blue.

It's three years later. A month before the wedding. It was a stressful time. We fought a lot. You threatened to call it off twice. You gave me my ring back a week before the ceremony. Cold feet. That night I went to your apartment, and we fought and then laughed and made up and drank a bottle of wine and decided to elope.

We were married at the court house the next day. Your parents were mad, but we told them we would still go through with the bigger ceremony. It was paid for already, so why not?

But that's not now. That's weeks away. Now I am in your apartment, and you are yelling at me. You call me selfish. You say I'm an asshole. But this me, the me I am now, is not angry. You are here. I don't want to fight.

"You're right," I say. "I am an asshole. I'm sorry."

You look at me oddly, waiting for the "but ..." Waiting for me to regroup and come back harder. I never apologize, and it throws you. You're like a prize fighter whose opponent just went down without a punch. It's a win but a confusing victory.

You glare at me and turn around, without a word. You're still mad, but I'm not. I reach out and squeeze your shoulder. You're warm and alive and real. I don’t want to let go. “Please,” I say. "I need to ..."

And I blink.

I blink, and it's later. Our honeymoon. We're in the ocean, the waves lapping at our legs.

You're in your white bikini, your hair sun-streaked, your skin tan. The moonlight is bouncing on your eyes. Your hand holds mine, and you stare at me with that look you give when I slip away, far away. That look that says to come back home.

"Sorry," I say.

"As long as you're back now," you say, pulling me into your arms.

We kiss, and I taste the salt on your lips. I smell the ocean on your skin. Your body is soft and warm, and I pull you tight, feeling you breathe against me.

I know how this night ends. We make love on a towel on the beach and fall asleep with sand in our hair. This was my favorite night. On my desk at work is a photo of you in this bikini, taken on this beach, on this night.

When it gets bad, when you struggle, and I work late nights to pay the mounting bills, feeling guilty that I have to choose between money or you, I will look at that photo and come back to this moment.

But now I'm here. And I kiss you and squeeze my eyes tight and fight back the tide of emotions. I don't want to leave.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s Christmas. I have Lucy in my hands, and you squeal when you see the puppy. You smile and hug me and tell me you love me.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s New Year’s. We are in Times Square. My company sent me here to help open the new branch, and we lived in a nice apartment for six months, enjoying the big city life. Your hand is in a mitten, and you grip me tight as we stare up at the dropping ball.

“I love you,” I say, but you cannot hear me, because the crowd is so loud. 5. 4. 3. I squeeze your hand tighter. "You're going to miss it," you say.

“Please don’t let me go,” I say to you, to me, to anyone.

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in your bakery. You opened it the week before. I have a dozen roses in my hand, and you are beaming.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s dark. We’re in bed. You are on top of me, and I am inside of you. You ride me, your nails in my chest. You lean down, your hair brushing my face. You moan, and your mouth opens.

I grab your arms and roll over, on top of you now. I stroke your hair and look into your eyes. “What’s wrong?” you say. “Why did you stop? I was close.”

“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want it to end.”

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re on the couch. You have a cold, your head on my chest. I hand you a box of tissues.

"What's happening?" I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I am at the bar with my friend Bob who is talking about his wife and how annoying she is and how he wishes he could find someone like you.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re eating dinner.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re laughing. You take a sip of wine and tell me to stop.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s snowing outside, and we’re making soup.

And I blink.

And it's dark. I hear you sleeping beside me, on your side, facing the wall. I stare up at the ceiling with the small crack in it as a car alarm goes off in the distance.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Your hand clenches mine tightly. I had forgotten how strong you were.

You're hoping for a girl. I'm hoping for a boy. The doctor is explaining the risks associated with your pregnancy.

He starts to give us odds and you squeeze harder. I don't want to see what comes next.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re driving, and our song comes on the radio, and you sigh and dab a tissue to your cheek and look out the window. Your nails are green.

We lost the baby a year ago. I remember thinking I wasn't sure if we would make it, and when we did, I was relieved. But that happiness did not last long.

“I want this to stop,” I say. “I know what’s coming up, and I don’t want to live it again.”

You look at me, puzzled. Not really angry, just sad.

And I blink.

I blink, and it's three years ago. You are sick. Frail, already. I skipped past the tests and the treatment and the remission and the hope that slowly turned to the worst fucking part of it all.

We're at our home. We're at the dining room table we bought at the thrift store, the one with the bum leg that I tried to fix but just made worse.

"It will be OK," you say, catching my eyes. "This will work." But it won't.

I smile, emotions overwhelming me. I'm helpless. Useless. We're broke. You closed your bakery the year before. We've already lost all of our savings. My insurance will not cover what is coming, and we will not be able to afford it.

I know how this will end. I know the path we're on, and I can't be strong. Not now. Not this moment.

I was never a great husband. I was a good husband. I tried to be great. But it was beyond my reach. I worked too much. I did not say I love you enough. I was selfish. I took you for granted. I missed too many moments thinking there would be more.

I look in your eyes, and I think of how much you will need me and how little I will be able to do to stop your pain, and I cry. I weep. I wail. I cannot stop. I've never cried like this in front of you before.

"Don't," you say, weakly, your hand cold on my back. "Please ..."

You were always stronger than me. I bury my head in my hands as you wrap your arms around me. I sob, my breath coming in shallow bursts. You pull me tight, and I sink into your arms. I close my eyes tight. Please ...

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in bed, sleeping. I dab a cool cloth on your head. Your eyes open, gingerly. They are glassy because of the drugs, but you manage a smile. “Hi,” you say.

I don't want to see this again.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish …”

And I blink.

I blink, and it's two weeks ago. You're gone. I'm alone, sitting in a tiny, cold apartment.

You fought hard. No surprise. You always did. The doctors gave you two months, but you turned it into a year. Every day was difficult, but I hope they were all worth it.

I am at the table. The table with the bad leg. There's a glass of warm whiskey in front of me, brushing against my finger tips, and an uneaten can of tuna.

Lucy is gone, too. She has been for several years. We did not get another dog because it was all too much.

I'm holding a photo of you, framed. Our wedding photo. I'm in a dark place. My head throbs. My eyes are blurry. Not from tears. I haven't been crying.

A stack of condolence cards are to my left. A stack of bills are to my right. Ahead of me is a lonely life full of pain and longing. I have not lived it yet, but it's just as clear to me as the past.

I think about what I have to look forward to and what I lost, and I feel the emptiness of despair. A void is slowly closing over me that numbs my soul and senses. I would cry, if I could, but I am too lost for tears.

"I hate this," I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm in a diner. I'm drinking a cup of coffee.

I recognize this place. It was the 24-hour grease pit near campus, the one I went to almost every night, to study, because my roommate liked to have loud sex with his girlfriend.

My biology text book is open. A half-eaten donut sits on a small saucer beside me. I am a senior in college.

This was where I met you for the first time. This is the night. Five minutes from now you will come in the door with a few friends. You will sit down behind me as I read this book and eat this donut. You will say hi and ask me for some sugar and notice my biology book and ask which class I am taking. I will tell you, and you will ask me if it is hard, because you are looking to take it next semester, and I will say it is, and you will introduce yourself, and pretty soon you have left your friends and are sitting with me, and we're talking about horror films and global warming.

I ask you out. You accept. We date. We fall in love. We marry. We get a dog. You get sick. You leave me. It takes 20 years, but it feels like a blink of the eye.

I know what lies ahead. I know how much I love you but how much pain comes with it. It all starts in less than a minute.

And I blink.

And I'm still here. Waiting for the door to open. My foot twitches as I close my book, ready to get up and leave.

I can walk out the door. I've been given a chance to do it all over again. Take another path. Try another life.

I want to. I need to. I don't think I can do this again.

And I blink.

And the door opens. And you walk in.

You're 22. Your nails are painted yellow. Your hair is in a ponytail.

The woman I loved. The woman I love. You glance at me and smile. I smile back. My heart jumps into my throat, strangling me. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. You sit down behind me.

I can smell your perfume. You're inches away.

I know the future. I know what lies ahead. I could leave right now.

You say hi, and that's all it takes. I do not move. I cannot move.

My eyes are wide open. And I do not blink.