“Do you miss me?”
There was fear but no accusation in the question. I gave him the truth.
“Sometimes.”
He drew a breath.
“But I don’t miss us.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes.”
We said goodbye, and I made coffee.
A month afterward, I went on an actual date. Thomas was fifty-four, widowed, an engineer, and a friend of a colleague. He talked a little too long about hiking boots before catching himself and apologizing. We met at a neighborhood restaurant, ate pasta, and laughed. There was no instant chemistry, romantic
