I know you don’t remember it, but I do.

You looked like that statue of David, only sadder, more tired, slumped apathetically atop a perfect concrete pillar. You could’ve been in The Met or something the way you looked, unruly hair sweeping effortlessly across your glazed eyes, your bootlaces dripping from your feet.

For a breathless minute and a half, I thought I didn’t exist. Suspended in a cruel purgatory, my shoes were made of lead and the seconds marched past me, taunting me. I could feel my teeth clench and my eyebrows furrow in angry desperation. I wish I had screamed.

Someone met you there, a gentle-looking woman with a sleek, decisive haircut and a leather portfolio tucked by her side. I bet she worked in an office or something boring and important. Anyway, she took you from that spot and you went without hesitation.

In another life, maybe it would’ve been me.

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