“The silence on the phone stretched between them until she remembered that he was one of the few people she’d ever known who didn’t nervously fill space with words.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘what happened between us was a long time ago. Maybe something’s missing from your life, but it isn’t me. You married your college sweetheart. You finally settled into a job that turned out pretty well for you. You have two adult children. You succeed at life. I remember you well enough to know you probably didn’t do it without some…transgressions along the way. But it’s the life you built, and it didn’t have room for me. If you want my advice–and no one ever really does want advice, do they?–whatever this is you’re going through, don’t try to go back. When you were a younger man, there were things you respected in a way you didn’t respect women. Playing keyboards. Preparing elaborate meals. So start a band. Go to cooking school. Don’t hurt your family.’
She ended the call.”
I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.