he’s standing in the shadow of the doorway and he asks, “you ready?”
tell you the truth, i was far from ready. always far from ready. but i said, “yes,” anyway, eagerly and brightly, because i wanted him to smile at me, i wanted him to love me. he said, “good,” but did neither and instead turns away, letting the darkness mask his face. (never count on ski masks, he’d say, instead rely on the tricks of light and shadow. they will be your friend when no others will.)
i say, “cardiff, if i die…” he’s always like this. cold. quiet.
but today he turns to me with a slight expression of reassurance on his face — rare — and says, “you won’t.”
(“but if i do?”
“you won’t.”)
