Pasta Night
A friend says, “Imagine you’re at the grocery store, and when you come back to your car, someone you love and lost is waiting for you inside. What happens?”
I scream. “Oh my god, oh my GOD. EWAN!”
Instantly, I am crying. Shaking with such vigor keys fall out of my hands and clang as they hit the black pavement. He is smiling his mischievous smile from the other side of the glass.
I have to open this fucking car and I can’t take my eyes off him. I kneel to recover the keys. Two lemons fall out of the bag and roll under the rusty muffler. I don’t care. I pat until I feel steel between my fingers. Standing up too quickly, I clip my head on the sideview mirror. I wince and drop the gallon of milk the other hand had been clutching. Again, I don’t care. I am falling apart with trembles of joy, surged with electricity. Still crying, heaving and trying to hold it together, I click the key fob and unlock the car. I drop the grocery bag with gusto and yank the back door handle nearly flinging the door off its hinge. “Ewan. I’ve missed you so much,” I want to say, but I don’t waste my breath on words. Instead, I throw my arms around him and pull him into my body. Will I crush his eight-year-old frame? I feel his arms clasp around me.
