I couldn’t tell you what I was doing a year ago. Last March was a furious blur of disbelief and sadness. Did I even realize it was St. Patrick’s Day?
Today I spent working and thinking of you often. Little pinpricks of regret throughout the day. I think of what we’ve done in years past. Bar hopping with friends in downtown Huntington Beach. Sitting on the patio, drinking, talking, laughing.
It was a source of amusement, us celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. Neither of us is Irish. But your best friend is and so, by association, were we. At least for the day.
And I’d get shit every year for not wearing green, but damn it, green is so not my color. Unless I’m going for that sallow, I’ve-spent-the-day-with-my-head-in-a-toilet look. In which case, perfect.
But tonight something occurred to me. I was changing clothes after my shift and thinking about what I was going to write… something about you, about missing you, about missing you during the holidays. (God knows, the holidays have been the hardest.)
I had a clear image in my head of a St. Patty’s Day two years ago. Us on the patio of a bar with friends. And a small smile curved my lips as I remembered… and then I remembered accurately.
The patio of a crowded bar. All those people. Most of them inebriated by noon. Loud music. Shouting to be heard. Secondhand smoke. Shudder.
God knows I miss you. Every. Single. Day.
But I don’t miss that.
And someday I might even be able to admit that I’m excited to eventually meet someone with whom I’m actually compatible without feeling so treacherously guilty.