DFW

It was 102 degrees when I landed in Texas. I sprinted from the tarmac to gate C2 to catch my connecting flight, careful not to burn to a crisp. I sat down at a long bar. I had ten minutes. 

"What'll y'all be having?" The bartender asked. I wished he had been polishing a whiskey glass when he said it. It would have been more romantic. But this was a TGI Fridays at the DFW airport. It wasn't Hemingway's or SpiderHouse or even Sam's on the Square where you used to wait tables when we were in school. 

"Shiner Bock, please," I say, extending my credit card and drivers license. I've always looked too young. "Close me out, if you can."

He smiles and cracks open the top of a long necked, sweaty bottle and hands it to me. I take a picture quickly before opening my throat and downing the brown liquid, fast. 6 minutes left. 

I set down the empty bottle and rush over to my gate. I try calling you, but it goes straight to voicemail. You're at work. Or you're with your girl. Who cares? What do I expect anyway? 

I give myself one last fever dream to miss you. This is getting silly, after all. It's been three years. I close my eyes, let the Shiner cool my belly. I imagine that you get my stupid voicemail and race to the airport in your beat up green Volkswagen with all the windows rolled down. You screech up to the front of the terminal and forget to close your door when you leap out and run inside. I'm waiting on your side of the security line in a long, black dress. My hair is different than you remember. Your nose rings are still there, like a little semi colon on the side of your nostril. You grab me by my waist and you Carrie Fischer, like you did at that Margot & the Nuclear So & So's show so many years ago.

"I love you," you breathe, and I say, "I know, I know, I know." 

This time, when you ask me not to go, I stay. We race to your car and I abandon my luggage. All that's inside is a few bathing suits and some face cream anyways. We drive until we can't see Dallas anymore. We get a tiny apartment in Austin and adopt French bulldogs named Lacuna and Shark. You give me another chance and I'm not scared that you'll hurt me this time. We start over, and I grow out my hair and dye it dark brown and we forget that there were ever years and states and distance between us. There's nothing between us now, just skin and skin and fingerprints. 

I open my eyes, collect my things, and board my flight to Palm Springs. In an wordless glance at the shitty carpet in the waiting area, I say goodbye. I imagine that you can feel it, wherever you are. But I guess if you could still feel it, we wouldn't be in this mess.

Here's the honest truth about everything: I've never been lucky enough to deserve a second chance with you or anyone. I don't know how to make that sound beautiful. And I don't know how to stop looking for you in everyone I meet.