Clink. Clink. Clink. The keys in his pocket.
Tic. Tic. Tic. His watch on his wrist.
He's whistling and humming an old tune.
He walks, but he's not walking. He floats, he's dancing.
I descend the staircase slowly, pointing the flashlight at the steps. He will be here any second. First I will hear the engine roaring, then I will see the taillights of the car.
The engine will stop, the driver's door will open and close. He will lock the car- a manual lock -and he will unlock the front door. Any minute now.
I am at the last step and I look towards the front door. Where is he? He should have been here by now. We always meet in the middle, walk the rest of the way to the house together.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Tic. Tic. Tic.
Whistling and humming.
Floating.
We once met in the middle, walked the rest of the way together.
But now, he's not here. Not yet. Not ever.
He used to squeezed my hand tightly for no reason. What I feel now is only muscle memory.
An image. A smell. A word.
A memory.
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