We are sitting in The Italian Market; my favourite little place for lunch. Waiting for our food to come and fighting over sections of an old newspaper. After a week of awkward hugs and staying up late to avoid going to bed we are finally reaching equilibrium. Until the conversation turns to Toronto and he drops his bomb:
“Well, call me when you get settled and we’ll see…”
I choke on my Sprite.
“We’ll see what?” Please don’t say it, please don’t say it. I mentally cross my fingers.
“We’ll see about me coming down, it would be easier to move the-”
My horror struck look must have stopped him in his tracks because he’s just staring at me and I can’t wipe my face clean. Here–where I had just packed up our past in neat little packages fit to travel–he has trampled through; bursting seams and reaking havoc. He is a four year old child, seizing a possession and running away, just out of grasp screaming “Mine! Mine! Mine!”
But, I’m not anymore. And now he finally knows too. I hope he knows now, too.