[What happens when you don’t recognize me at the Art Museum.]
Maybe we arrive neck and neck at the ticket booth.
I hear the new Rembrandt exhibit is worth the price.
We knock knees and you lean in close to apologize.
I’ll notice you wear a different perfume but
then why would you wear the same you did at 18?
Now the clerk will say something like “it’s a tie!” and
each of us will laugh. You because of a joke
I didn’t catch. And me because you don’t fucking
remember me! Why should you? I only gave you
a Valentine’s Day card every year from 6th grade until
you were nineteen. Right about now I’m controlling my rage.
They were fucking homemade and everything.
We went on three dates. A fourth if you count that field trip
the school instituted the buddy system on. I got the shit kicked out
of me by Miguel that time he dumped you in front of everyone.
I’ll get your ticket because we both know you aren’t a member.
I am. My fucking wife and two kids are too. You’ll protest.
Shake your head no a few times. I’m persistent. You’ll ask
Is this some sort of paying it forward type thing?
Maybe I’ll say Jenna and you’ll tilt your head like you used to.
I’ll see myself on the edge of a memory. My name on the
Tip of your lips again. But then you’ll take a call from your boyfriend.