“I don’t miss him.”
I state this calmly over olive oil and pita bread,
the Mediterranean smell of chickpeas wafting almost cloyingly.
You raise one eyebrow, mute contradiction implied.
I shake my head, almost sneezing as the motion wafts up honey,
hummus, grapes. Chokingly amplified by proximity.
We sigh, mirror images; you are my future, I am yours.
And we dip the bread in oil.