supplicium post mortem

Did I see you at the pump yesterday, out of the corner of my eye? Your red Music Man t-shirt: “Trouble.” Your beat-up cargo shorts? How could I be sure, as I clenched the nozzle, that you wouldn’t emerge from the store bearing cheetoes and a cup of coffee, thick as oil?

I’ve pumped up seven bike tires, four inflatable mattresses, seventeen gas tanks. I’ve grown used to doing the driving, all of it, all the time. I’m used to walking the dogs, month in and out. I can handle all the chores, the garden, the grilling. I found the drill. I’ve grown used to having the bed to myself even if I still keep to my side. I’ve grown used to our rings on my right hand where they don’t belong. I don’t want to be used to any of it.

The footsteps in the hall yesterday sounded like yours. Even the dogs stood up to listen. They, too, wanted you to walk through the door. They wanted you to put down your backpack and your Post, lock the door, and say Daddy’s home.

Your shoes are waiting. Your shaving foam is waiting. Your bedside drawer is waiting. Even your dirty laundry is waiting.

He sounds like you now, my stepson, more every day. He jokes like you, reasons like you, inflects, strides, and dresses like you. He isn’t you.

I’m not me, either, but I’m living our life. Didn’t I see you yesterday, at the pump, beyond reach?

Dear me, sorry. And I was all ready to write a fun, sexy one full of lust for a hot young man! Then this happened. Oh, well, caveat lector.

Come write your own missed connection – real or fantasy, who will know? Post the link today (Wednesday) here or on Twitter (@caseydamnmorgan). What is Midweek Missed Connections?

Read other missed connections this week:

• PapaTomLA