Words we never said

But this is why I don't talk to him.

The Bartender.

Something about me: I paint. And I set out to teach him a few things. And I left a set of paints with him. A year ago.

So I finally got up the nerve to text him, to ask him about the forgotten paints, the paints I'd like to have back, that I've pushed out of my mind, and while we were talking about paints, we weren't talking about paints.

How to describe it? I thought I could joke about it, telling him I thought I would leave them and you'd paint a masterpiece, and he said, You were supposed to help me.

And I said, Stupid Chicago. And then him: Yeah well.

Maybe I'm taking it too seriously.

But maybe I'm not.

I think about my life had I not left. I can't pretend to believe it would have worked. That we would have made it this long. Maybe we would have. Maybe I'm being romantic.