I'm not freaking out but what if he doesn't call. What if I wander listless in the pouring rain while the Dalai Lama talks with the masses and he doesn't call. What if I wait and wait and wait at the top of the wrong stairs at the wrong station and he doesn't call. What if he stays dry and safe in the confines of the rehab while I scour the crowds for any glimpse of a man like him. What if everything I ever imagined crawls out from under the bed and takes me hostage. What if I sleep in, what if I lose my phone, what if he can't find a pay phone, what if he takes one look at me and says, no, not you. What if this dropping in my stomach pulls me to the bottom of the ocean. What if all the rescue divers blow bubbles of wonder at the invisible anchors while I writhe and the pressure implodes my lungs. What if he forgets to phone. What if he phones and I don't where he is, what if I can't find where he means because all the landmarks are swirling and this geography is killing me. What if he doesn't exist and all of this imagining is all that I deserve, this sordid cracked imagining of a broken man fighting for sobriety and the courage to go on.
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