"apartment goodbye"

It’s clear to me now that the friendship had ended then, though neither of us knew yet. Perhaps she’d felt a gesture of it, as I did, like sometimes we’d smell a hint of Mrs. Dvorak’s roast chicken next door. She sat on the bed and it squeaked under her, and I lowered my head and studied the tiny knots in the hardwood. The window was partly open and the plastic blinds rattled, and it felt like summer although Thanksgiving was only a few days away, and half a foot of snow would bury my car in the parking lot. Sunlight streamed in from the arch window and I asked her if she remembered how that was the first thing she had loved about this place, and if she remembered asking if I could please say yes because a home with so much light couldn’t be all bad? Outside someone pulled into the lot and honked. I looked at my feet and noticed a hole in my sock and she caught me looking at it. She started to laugh quietly, then burst out into a fit and wouldn’t stop. I was annoyed at first but had to laugh, too. What a thing to notice, isn’t it? A friendship ending and there’s a hole in my sock. I might have fallen in love all over again. Our laughter rang out and probably someone passing outside heard us, and I felt better and thought everything would be perfectly fine. Our laughter rang out across the bare floor and across five decades and I hear it as clear as ever, but now I must admit it makes my hands tremble, and I hurt in my heart, I hurt so badly.