To an outsider, it might have appeared as though we were mimicking each other's movements. Perhaps it even seemed as though a mirror had been magically raised upwards alongside my body to reflect my motions and thoughts and buying habits.
She nodded her head yes and lied when I asked her if she was alright. Her brown eyes blinked a song in perfect time to keep from letting loose tears. My lovely friend was sad.
In the conference room, where I have lunch each day with two of my favorite people in the world (I am very lucky), I found myself tapping my fingers in constant rhythm against the long, veneered table. Why was I doing this?
I received a voicemail from Eileen on Friday night, which said something like: "You missed my phone call again, and I’m here with Sean and Omar and Allison and Justin and Lauren and Scott and Cheryn, and we’re all waiting for you, and you’re lame."
I just want to sit here and be alone and think of her and drink Brooklyn Lager and listen to music and feel the cool new autumn wind blow through my open window—as soft and as right as her hand pressing mine—and forgive me, please friends, forgive me, but I’m tired and I’m happy and is there anything so wrong with that really?
Stephen Mejias
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