Each night I wait. I watch out the window. I count cars that appear on the road. See their headlights grow then dwindle as they continue past on two lanes heading north. “If I count ten cars, he’ll come.” “If I count twenty…” I hope we will drive to the light and talk and laugh but he may not appear. I sit at the window until late, the night gone. Disappointment’s my reward. All evening I'm held hostage to hope. My job – suspense, submission. His – choice and power.
She touches me as if I'm rock or tree immune to time and gravity, impervious to woe. The twenty years we’ve left (with luck and grace) invisible to her. In her constant now our cardinal sings the mac ‘n cheese is hot. We walk the stones in her backyard our sacred spot. She will have time enough to seek me in rocks and trees when I’m gone. Today she leans against my jeans and turns me briefly immortal.