Two thousand and one                 

We sit on the damp concrete, backs against the wall and windows of a costume shop, knees bent, feet splayed, waiting for the theatre to open, for the show to begin. She wears converse, black, low tops, and dark jeans, a studded belt and a cardigan. Her tortoise shell glasses peek out from chunky black bangs. I wear cargo pants from the Gap, a white cotton shirt and flip flops. Her hair is short and hip, dyed deep black and messed up in the back. My hair is long and streaked in sun. Her skin is milk white and unblemished. My skin brown and thick and solarized. I call across the street for dinner while we wait, order vegetable pad thai--no shrimp--and tofu with mixed veggies--no peppers and no onions--without even pausing for consensus. I know her aversions and her favorites; there is an known and intimate familiarity to us, like an old house, like home. She is languid and calm and patient. I am wound tight and rapid and flutter. She likes television and couches and long days with movies and books and black coffee. I love the air and oxygen and atmosphere, can't stand television, can barely sit through movies. 

We have been friends for years and we sit on the sidewalk, side by side, waiting for the show to begin.

Two thousand and eight

We haven't spoken in over a year. It was a long slow collapse, lengthy break up, an unnecessary end.  There were all kinds of awkward, assumed, associated reasons. Accidentally missing each other, avoiding, for months, weeks, years. There was an enveloping edge, I felt uncomfortable, defensive. All at once, our endearing differences were coming us undone. 

I miss her daily although I think of her less and less as time gets older. But it still happens, and often. I'll be driving in the car and will be filled with the sudden need to call her, to tell her that John Mayer is such a fucking tool or why do women wear scrunchie boots for the love of god and allah? She is the one I want to call when inappropriate comments about toothless rednecks sitting outside with their fat daschunds overwhelm me. 

We haven't spoken in over a year. Sometimes, if I'm not paying attention, I'll dial the first five digits of her phone number, a muscle memory, an old habit. Thinking back to a time when our differences were slight and our friendship seemed infinite and inevitable.