South, West.

Soaking in the sun settled on the steps at Rutgers University, my phone rattles me out of daydreams, notifying me that you have arrived. Releasing a deep sigh, I ask aloud “But whereeee though?” I cannot see you even as I stroll to the passenger side of your car. The only visible audience is your pup, Coltrane, panting in the window, his body waving hello. Blinded by the stage lights, I put on a one woman play and perform friendship “Okay crop top! I see you sis!”

“Hey girl, here Coltrane go, doing the most.”

Your chronic melancholy externalizations collide with the force of my lab grown sunshine, we exchange greetings and hugs.

It is early June with clear skies, lush green trees form a cozy enveloping collegiate campus. School life is nearly dormant, classes have mostly ceased for summer break and a few stragglers mill about the campus. Within the walls of the convening building, the energy swells as the black writers conference attendees commune to network and exchange laughs. There is a glass wall and double doors silencing the life inside from disturbing the tranquil world outside. Resting on the warm slate steps stacked in the courtyard, my phone weighs heavy in my hand. The earlier messages from you are disorienting like a Tokyo subway map after a long flight.

Unbeknownst to us, we were nearing our finish line. Lunch together that afternoon took a dull paring knife to our friendship, like bruised fruit it did not take much for the thin skin of our affections to rip from the pressure.

Curiously and indelicately, I ask “Do you always wear your Apple watch with your outfits?”

“Well I don’t like your earrings and I didn’t say anything.”

The absurdity of the escalation rubbed the fire flint of my anxiety and unseriousness, catapulting my laughter. We both levitated between friction and disarmament.

Our words become autumn temperatures, cooling the space between us. I tread into vulnerability hoping to call back the warmth of June.

’Yeah girl, I had to get a biopsy on my scalp this summer and I’ve been wearing a hat to cover the stitches.”

“Damn, girl that’s awful, lemme see, it’s probably not that bad.”

“Girl, we in public…”

You persist, “so what, it’s just white people in here, who cares?”

The chill of winter wafts in, expanding the icicles dripping from the tension. I acquiesce and remove my cap, bowing my crown so you can look down and see the threads of my defeat.

Stepping out of the Mexican spot into the Jersey summer heat doesn’t thaw us, the goosebumps on our skin remain. It’s too early for me to return to the Amtrak train stop and too late to salvage our season.

In chorus, we wonder aloud “so, what do we do now?”

You’d rather be in the traffic that made you text me earlier in the day saying “hey, I might not come, I didn’t realize how far Rutgers is from me and I don’t want to drive in traffic.”

I’d rather be on an earlier train back to Baltimore, having bought the ticket after you said that, though I ended up changing it back so I could unknowingly witness our series finale in person. But, I betray our knowing and suggest we stop for ice cream. A Google Maps search for local ice cream shops becomes a respite from the cold, veiling our existential threat.

We stride out of sync focusing on the innocuous silly impulses of your tethered ash brown miniature labradoodle. The walk is brief and we separate at the door of the shop.

“I don’t want to bring him inside, I’ll wait at a table outside.”

“Okay cool, lemme know if you want anything.”

Returning to you, I slowly serve myself small spoonfuls of vanilla soft serve covered in rainbow sprinkles. The quiet lingering between you and I is set to the melodies of traffic, passing pedestrian conversations, and you fussing with Coltrane to stay put.

Noticing the sun winding down for the day, I assert, “we should get going, my train leaves soon.”

You give Coltrane my left over ice cream and we head to the train stop. Our goodbye feels like a back scratch that never quite finds the spot.

Ten years to the day I met you, I took a one-way train south, only looking back once to watch you head west.

cover image: ‘pensive’ (2020) ernest shaw