I'd only gone to see him to talk, I didn't have time to do anything else. I slipped out of my prior obligations to see if I could find him, which usually wasn't the easiest thing to do. By fate, or luck, or maybe pure coincidence, he was in the first place I looked, the same place he always was, where they all always were.
He was sitting with two other girls, one I knew, one I didn't. They were all eating diner chicken; talking about his inevitable obesity once his metabolism wore down at thirty. I sat down next to him, as close as I could (only to fit in the booth), and at the moment I wanted him to move over, but looking back on it I realize how much I appreciated the mundane intimacy.
We left, walked down the street, down another street, to nowhere in particular. We stopped near a school playground, we stood and talked.
"Why California?" he asked. His eyes were so dark and so rich and seemed so sincere. I kissed him, reminding myself of what he tasted like after months of hopelessly attempting to remember. He slipped his hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt and pulled me closer and everything seemed perfect, until the memory of his girlfriend invaded his thoughts and he pulled away, guiltily mentioning her name.
