Wish You Were Here

If I could sit beside you in a worn down diner, I would. We would sit at the cracked counter, balancing on wobbly, spinning stools and peer at the menu, already knowing what we want. Nowhere to put our coats and hats, we’d drape them over our knees. Before the day is over I would lose a glove, dropped to the snow-melted wet floor, trampled on before it’s even missing and missed. But, before then we would order plates of runny eggs and almost burnt toast. We’d let steaming cups of coffee sit untouched at our elbows, too hot to sip. Conversation would be silent because enjoying each others unusual company would be all we need. You would eavesdrop on the couple behind us, nodding knowingly; wise to their hushed argument about buying a bigger truck. The exclamation, an outburst of sorts, “but, it’s New England!” would make you smile small. The corners of your mouth would barely move, but the barely contained laughter would still show in your eyes. You want to say something, but would busy yourself with fixing my coffee the way I like it instead. You would even stop to test its temperature, your tongue knowing exactly how I can take it. “It’s cool enough” you would indicate with a small nod, pushing the cup towards me, eyes still laughing. Thank you, I would acknowledge you are right. Again. 
Getting up to pay the bill. That’s when I’d lose the glove. I wouldn’t notice it slide off my lap, bounce off the stool leg and land soundly in the cold puddle of slush created by my too-big black boots. Instead I would trudge my way to the cashier, my coat bunched under an arm. You hand over the check and wait for change. “Ready?” you would ask with your smiling eyes. Yes. And out of the diner we would go. If I could, I would.