Greetings

(Seattle, November 2010)

There he is. I have intended, so many times, to smile at him the way I did today. 

He is agitated but not by me. 

Distracted by my success, my nerveless study of his features, the triumph of my greeting. I was joyful, I had finally addressed him. I do not mean that we had never spoken before, we have. 

He was pointing to the inside of his left wrist. The sounds he made were all booze, missing teeth, and saliva. 

I kept walking, afraid he wanted more from me.

Today, I was struck by his youth. Regularly, he is an old man who asks me to marry him and name his horses, who have been out to pasture for years anonymously. Today, he has no horses. Today, he is a boy.

Often he has been patient, when my jokes are too loud and my apologies too coy. I am walking past him anxiously; his sounds are still a mystery. He is waiting for my reply. 

My lips are faster than my logic, and I blurt “Friday.” I take two more steps, and I am past him. 

“No, no, no.” My voice surprised me, and I was smiling; his sounds were an inquiry, “What day is it today?” was his request. 

I’m walking uphill now; my hair blows loosely over my face and shoulders. I do a complete turn without stopping. 

I stole this spin move from a basketball player juking his opponent. I stole this maneuver from a beautiful woman in a movie dancing across a bridge at dusk.

“No, no, no, it’s Thursday, Thursday!” I yell this; I am ten or twelve paces uphill from him now. I’m in the middle of my spin move, and I look great. He hears me and lets his finger drop from his wrist.