Constance wants to know what I’m afraid of. So I answer: Scorpions. Lingering deaths. Not saying goodbye. Saying goodbye too quickly. Falling down holes. Plane crashes. Monsters in the closet. Rabid dogs. Electrical fires. What will happen if I’m alive when this civilization falls. Losing the ruby out of my engagement ring. Hitting pedestrians while driving a car. Being left out. Being unlovable. Being wrong. Deep, rapid rivers. Strange men at the bus stop. Strange women in the grocery line. Phoning strangers.
Constance says that isn’t what she meant, so she asks me what I’m waiting for. I say: The right kind of silence. A mid-morning kiss. An evening alone. The light to change. The sky to break. The words to drift past. That song to play again. These seconds to tick the minute-hand to just the right angle. A better day. A shorter month. Less sunlight. A whisper inside my skull.
Constance complains that I never understand her. I kiss her forehead. And nod.
That is just exquisite.