“What did you wish for?”
When I was a boy, I slipped on ice. The back of my head hit concrete, a shock of white and pressure ending at my eyes.
“If I tell you, that means it won’t come true. Right?”
She was fully there, fully mine for almost a year. Then she wasn’t. A flip of the switch — I have to figure things out — and gone.
I couldn’t breathe for days. I tried turning my feelings away. She’d done it, after all. There had to be some trick.
“Come on.” Her mouth twisted, a mischievous grin. “You can tell me.”
We’d only had months. Time for love to grow, but not so much that it got stale — I thought. Hers led the way. She was all in well before me. And then she wasn’t, just like that.
For months, every time I saw her name on Twitter, on Facebook, on World of Warcraft, I felt a punch at the back of my head. My vision went white. I’d quickly scroll on. I was certain the love was still there, and that she was afraid to admit it. I searched Missed Connections and message boards, hoping she would be wailing into the ether, heart as broken as mine.
I took a sip of whiskey. “I could tell you.”
I could tell her: I wished for you. I wished for the switch to flip again, for the love that had burned so hot to ignite, return to full flame.
I could tell her: I wished for me. I wished it hadn’t taken a supreme effort of will to accept her offer of birthday drinks. I wished I could be as cool and calm as I acted.
I wish you loved me.
I wish you loved me.
God, I wish you loved me.
“Maybe everybody got it wrong. Maybe if you tell me, your wish will come true.” The grin became a smile, a true smile, and my vision went white.
