The Goodbye Card I Signed Last

I signed the card last on purpose. waited until there was almost no white space left, so my line could be short and nobody would notice it was short.

everyone else wrote stay in touch, you'll be missed, the office won't be the same. I wrote take care. two words. true enough.

it's 2am and I'm still in the parking garage, third level, engine off, because if I turn the key the day is actually over and I'm not ready for that. she got the window desk in March. she took the deck I built and walked the room through it like she'd stayed up making it. I said congrats. I clapped.

so this is my revenge. a card. two words she'll read once in the car and recycle. that's the whole crime. I rehearsed colder versions in my head for an hour and signed the polite one anyway.

the garage light keeps clicking off and I keep moving my hand to bring it back.

and then the part I didn't plan on. in a few years it'll be a card with my name at the top going desk to desk. someone will hold it a second too long, trying to think of two true words. and they'll write take care. and mean exactly what I meant tonight.