I remember the day I showed up exactly twenty-seven minutes late to your house. Wind bit at my face as I bounced back and forth on my feet to ward off the early October chill. Avoiding the little crack that crawled through your front window, I watched you calmly walk to the front door in response to my frantic knocks. When you pried open the door, you avoided looking me in the eye, instead focusing on your scuffed Welcome mat with your arms protectively crossed over your chest. I didn’t really notice. "Let’s go," I insisted, leaning over to scoop up one of your many yapping dogs who had escaped through the open door, "the café closes in an hour." I handed you the squirming dog, quietly smiling and expecting you to pull on your usual hoodie and hop in my car, pushing away thoughts of the argument that was soon too come, the argument about why I was late, why didn’t I care enough to be on time. "Maybe next week," you replied, smiling tersely as you herded your yapping clan of dogs inside and quietly shut the door, leaving me shivering in the icy October weather. The sun glinted off the crack in your front window, and I had to squint to make out your hazy image sinking back into the house.


We ended on the day I was twenty-seven minutes late, your thin smile the reflection of a thousand awkward conversations, a thousand times trying to connect with one another, a thousand arguments fought but never won. In those twenty-seven minutes, our world slowly started to disintegrate, piece by piece, until only empty coffee cups and vapid memories remained.



A week later, I sent you a brief text message. Sorry about the other day, let’s meet for coffee. There was no response from you. Nearly a year has passed, and I have heard not a word. I often wonder what you are up to these days. I wonder if you still have that crack in your window.