Ficlets

Do you stop to think of me the way I stop to think of you? Do you lose your ability to concentrate, get that thousand-yard stare, and stop being a good listener? That’s what I do. I’d be embarrassed to find out that you don’t have this problem, so I think I’d rather not know. Let’s go with that, though, ‘cause you know how I love pain and drama—let’s imagine you’re somehow able to go on with all your life’s various details lined up just so, all your ducks in a row, with the house in suburbia, the white picket fence, spouse, kid, the whole thing. I’ve done that, too, you know. Still, you come back. And no, you don’t haunt me. Please. Ghosts do that. They aren’t around any more. I know you’re still somewhere, doing something. So, “haunt” doesn’t come close to what you do. Leave me alone, will you? Or tell me how to leave “it” alone. How do you do it? How do you go on like we never happened? Am I assuming too much to think you aren’t, or am I flattering myself too much when I ask?