Don’t bother debating reaching out to me. I’ll find you.

I’ll find you because I remember you, sitting at the booth of a downtown Starbucks, draped in a dark green dress. Chains of ruby gemstones hung from a canvas of black hair, so sharp was the contrast that each ornament seemed to drift from its mooring and into orbit around a navy blue pendant. You had a center of gravity. I could only make out your face in the negative space between fractal gold and sapphire necklaces telescoping out to the corners of my vision.

I wore long grey slacks and a sharply rectangular jacket, black-and-white checkering like a QR-code, broken up only by a square silver watch—its face a mirror. My shadow split the cafe in half, spanning from entryway to your outstretched arm. Your figure was a flag; I, a flagpole as we passed through each other.

In time we will return to the same Starbucks, lover, your jewelry clouded, my cracked watch reflecting us in monotones.

Dealbreakers: monogamy, cats (I’m allergic), children