Kim

"Too bad we don't have the key to these," you said, twirling the handcuffs on your finger.

I was tired. We were tired. We were young. It was a warm afternoon in Scranton. We were both worn out by a grueling week. Nothing happened.

Other things happened after that. You fell out of my life. After that I only heard about you second-hand.

I looked you up, as I do from time to time. I do it with a lot of people I know. See how they're doing. See how they've distinguished themselves.

I knew you were married. Knew you had kids. Knew you had moved out West. Knew you were the editor of a local magazine.

I didn't know you died four months ago.

Cancer. Multiple myeloma. Diagnosed ten months earlier.

Goodbye, Kim. I have regrets, but life is too short for regret. You did well.

Goodbye.