Facing the Past…

Facing the Past: A Heartfelt Reunion at the Bar

An online date

hadn’t arrived.

Clean bar,

smoke filtered

through the lights.

A “DRINKS FOR DATES” neon sign hummed

in the window.

Waiters served stale hops,

dark beer, and shots.

Soft pop played.

People chatted,

watching the game

on the large TVs.

I picked through cashews.

I looked up,

a familiar fragrance

approached.

“God,” I said,

exhaled.

“You again?”

“Good to see you, too,” Quinn said,

her words were sarcastic.

Her maroon skirt, pinned dark hair,

and red lipstick made her irresistible.

“Who was it this time?”

I babysat a chilled Redhook.

Quinn lifted her hand.

“Open seat?”

she said,

her tone—not asking.

“It’s a free country.”

“But is it?” she said,

elbows propped, her chin

in her hands.

“Not politics again,” I said,

shaking my head.

“Politics or our divorce,” she said,

sipping my beer.

“How about neither?”

I glanced—

lipstick stained the drink

the way her lips told me

it was over.

“I understand—”

I leaned, eyes crinkled.

“You don’t!”

She lifted her hands.

“You’re right,” she said.

“I was wrong.”

I arched a brow.

“You admitting you’re wrong?

Now, that’s a first.”

“Well,” she said,

“First times happen.”

“We divorced five years ago,”

I said. “What’s changed?”

“You,” she said, tilting her head.

“And me.”

“I’ve changed?”

“You’ve got some nerve.”

“First, you catfish me,” I said.

“I should sue the dating site

for pain and suffering.”

My face cracked, grinning.

“Split it 50/50?”

“I can’t with you.”

I laughed.

“People make mistakes,” she said.

“We were young.”

“Let’s go to the canyon,”

I said before I could ask myself.

She matched my gaze, tearing up.

“I’d like that,” she said.

We drove—

The hillside—

a sight sore eyes saw.

The bustling city lights flickered.

She hugged herself, sobbing.

I embraced her,

a slight tremor eased

into a soft sigh

at what we missed.

We met here, made love here—

told each other, “I love you,” here.

“I still love you,” I said,

my voice cracking.

“Please, take me home,” she said—her voice insistent.

“Our bed has always been ready for you.”

I squeezed her.

“God. What would I do without you?”

“Probably catfish someone else.”

She chuckled. “Absolutely not.”

“Let’s go home.”

We held hands, growing in grace,

forgiving in maturity,

connecting the dots

to the love that we’d change for nothing.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

X: AC0040