orange juice and who wants to be a millionaire

the beginning the middle and the end

orange juice and who wants to be a millionaire. our weekday lunches. you were never one for meals during the day, said it was some kind of diet. I always poured your orange juice into that tall green glass you loved. chipping on the edges but you said it gave the glass character. so we'd sit with our orange juice and your chipped glass and I would warn you that you'd cut your lip and you'd laugh and then do it anyway. we watched people fail to climb the ladder on that show. you always said that if you were on it, you'd be a millionaire. you always said you'd win that show and bring us home the money. you always scoffed at the professors and rocket scientists who forgot pop culture references you always knew. taylor swift album names and angelina jolies children slipped their minds but always stayed intact in yours.

but then you left.

and now whenever I see that chipped glass I take it out of the cabinet and watch who wants to be a millionaire and think of you. of the way your smile would glint off the light through the half open window, of the way your eyebrows would scrunch when you saw a particularly hard question. I stare at your glass and run my finger over the rim, cutting it countless times but I don't care. now my tears mingle with the blood on the translucent green and those rocket scientists still can't answer questions about graffiti and the new york times bestseller list. but you always could.

I've started using that chipped glass. I've learned to drink from it without cutting my lip, learned to be more like you. I'm actually watching who wants to be a millionaire now. because you're not there to distract me. I like the way this glass catches the light from that window. it reminds me of your eyes, a green swatch of brightness that shattered as quick as that glass did the day I couldn't walk because of the pain.

I keep a chip of it somewhere. to remind me of your dangerous ways, your simple yet unusual life. I've tried out for who wants to be a millionaire many times, and I have yet to be chosen. but then I remember that you'd tell me to keep trying and something good would come out of it.

I finally got accepted to be on who wants to be a millionaire. while on stage I fingered the glass shard, reopening the countless scars marring my fingertips. I got to the final round but blew it because I didn't know the name of kim kardashians baby. you would have laughed at me, would've told me to phone a friend, your smile catching the light in the most marvelous ways. but you were the only friend I could've called, and you weren't available.

I'm the rocket scientist, I've figured out, and you're the moon. unattainable yet totally within reach, except I'm 6 feet higher than you now.

I haven't bought orange juice in weeks. the glass shard has been filed down, i wear it on my neck as a reminder of your eyes. I'm working part time in the hospital now, psychiatric ward. i tape who wants to be a millionaire and watch them at night after my shift.

I miss you.