I Wish I Could Be That Stranger Across the Room Again

Prose Poetry

Photo by Mark Hayward on Unsplash

We were that surprise hurricane of a force that would end with only tears and a taste of destruction.

But let me back up — too soon, too soon — and set the scene.

You saw a girl by her lonesome, settled into a corner, no room for anyone but her moody thoughts. The jukebox hummed a soft melody, something they’d play late at night on a light rock station, and you thought you’d try your luck by talking to the girl who couldn’t seem to be bothered with the bar scene around her.

I knew you were the try-too-hard type as soon as you leaned on the bar stool next to me. Your cologne was the first greeting — something of spice and cloves and something else I couldn’t name — before you shot your smile my way and thought that would be enough to set me at ease.

But I surprised you: “Want a drink?” I said the words before you could shoot them my way, and this way I stolen the power you’d intended to wield.

Your eyebrows shot up for a moment before your expression relaxed. “Sure,” you replied.

And that interaction alone spoke a lot to the future we’d find ourselves living.

I don’t remember the conversation — all I know is that you didn’t insult me at all, either directly…