When I see you again, for the first time in months, I’m surfing the waves of the Red Line. Feet planted, hands in my pockets, I refuse to reach for the train’s handrail to keep my balance. I refuse, just flat-out won’t do it—even when the vision of you threatens to sweep the legs out from under me like you’re Johnny and I’m the Karate Kid.
It can’t be you, I think to myself, not with that smile. No one smiles like that. No. Not after God gives you more than you can handle and only a surgical oncologist can take the weight off your shoulders. (Or your breasts, as the case may be.)
It can’t be you. But it is you.