Waiting On The Same Cab

The wedding ended forty minutes ago and we're both still on the curb, waiting on cabs that already came and left without us twice. Behind us someone's unplugging the string lights section by section, working backward from the tent, so it keeps getting a little darker where we're standing.

We're doing the thing where we talk about anything except the thing. The open bar, the best man's speech, whether the venue charges by the hour for how long people linger. I've called my ride twice now and told it the wrong side of the building both times, which isn't an accident, I just don't know how to make my legs walk toward it yet.

You're going home to someone asleep already. So am I, in my own version of that. Neither of us has said whatever this is. We circled it all night, at the table, on the dance floor for one song we both pretended was unavoidable.

The lights go out behind us in one more section. A cab pulls up and idles, and neither of us moves toward it first, and I think about Monday, our two desks eleven feet apart, and how nothing that happens on this curb in the next thirty seconds will show up on either of our calendars, and how that's exactly the problem.