After a night apart (self-imposed exile, really) Saturday had arrived, and with it, the conversation. The one I’d rehearsed in my head for weeks.
He’d been permanently stressed, chronically unavailable, and somehow convinced that being overwhelmed excused everything from forgetting plans to forgetting how to be present. I wasn’t asking for the moon. Just for him to show up. Ideally on time and emotionally conscious.

“Thanks, have a lovely evening,” I say to the taxi driver before my boots thud toward the oversized arched entrance door; late again, as usual. My work colleagues, some of whom have become good friends, know by now that I save my punctuality for official meetings only. As the elevator climbs toward the rooftop, I smile at the man riding with me, then take a deep breath, releasing the quiet thrill of a midsummer evening.