Incommunicado

I. Waiting for you at five-thirty pm

We’re like this now simply because I forgot something at home, something important, because I was thinking too much about going here.  I left my phone on my desk, charging, silent.  When I realized what I’d done (I was already on my way), I didn’t feel bad at all; I thought of it as a challenge to our communication.  Where are you now, I wonder.  We had agreed to meet at five, here at the park.  Perhaps you got stuck in traffic, or maybe you forgot where I would be waiting.  No matter; what is important is that you finally make it to where I am, here on the bench where I like to sit, leaves falling over me.

II. After a few minutes

I think it is going to rain.

I have no problem with that before, with the countless scorching days and sad greens thirsty for rain.  It’s just that knowing you are on your way to me right now, you would be looking for me.  And if it rains I would have no choice but to leave (I do have an umbrella, but what good is that if I’ll be alone, loving the rain by myself?).  Then you wouldn’t know where to find me.  I will be mobile.  So please, please, before it rains—find me on this bench, ready to flee, green umbrella on the ready.