A group of us sit on patio chairs and sip glasses of rosé while talking about how unbearable the temperature is. It’s been months of sweat and restlessness with the promise of September finally around the corner.
My friend talks about her summer romance, a fleeting relationship she knows will be coming to a close any day now. As soon as the leaves begin to change, they will kiss one another goodbye and think nothing of it. She doesn’t mind. And I wonder if she really means that.
I look around the room and think of how these nights will soon look different. Our group will switch out our glasses of wine for mugs of cider and embrace the change in the air.
“Summer flings are great, but autumn is the best time to fall in love,” another friend chimes in.
We all nod in agreement, but I can’t stop from thinking about love and timing.
I’m becoming accustomed to searching for these pesky expiration dates. I’m checking labels of cans and people, preparing for the inevitable. And I’ve got to tell you, it’s making me lose my appetite.
I’m not as willing to sit down to my meals anymore. I’m looking for take-out, for drive-thru windows, anything quick so I can’t watch the things I want to eat go bad. Things seem to go bad so fast. I’m not wanting to watch anymore. It’s harder to block out the ticking clock.
I’m sick of trying to do the logical thing when it comes to love. Watching us round the same track, calculating chances that this whole thing will blow up in our faces.
I’m saying, “Fuck that.”
I don’t care anymore. The risks aren’t enough to stop me. I’ve seen the aftermath from the past and I’m still willing to put both my hands in. I’m running across hot coals barefoot and knowing it’s half idiotic, half the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
I’m saying , I don’t want a summer love because September comes without warning and maybe I won’t want to close another chapter. Maybe I’ll want to keep reading. Maybe I’m just so tired of knowing books have to end.