Dark Blue Pick-Up Trucks and Baseball Games

I'm getting tired of craning my neck at every intersection, to peek into the cab of that dark blue pick up truck that is never yours. Even when I logically know, because of the name on the back that says Ford or Dodge, that it's not you, I still search the driver side window in a desperate attempt for some sort of reconciliation. When I see one pass I check my rear view mirror for that obnoxious sticker, the one that makes your truck stick out like a sore thumb. (I really liked that sticker). When I'm 200 miles north, in a town not even a quarter of the size of this one, I search the bed of dark blue trucks for bicycles and empty bottles of Mt. Dew. It's not like you would ever in a million years be anywhere near where I am, but for my own peace of mind I feel like I need to look. Just to make sure. Maybe I'm hoping that one day I will be standing at the crosswalk, leaving American Lit. (I still have a worksheet due on Edwards...), and I will see you drive through the intersection, maybe taking it slow to see if you can spot me. I know this hoping is futile, that I will probably never see you again and if I do it will be some universal fluke, Fate's mistake. Because that's how things always work out with us. When I need you the least, you come back. And when I need you the most, you leave. It's this cat and mouse game, and I'm tired of always being caught and never being caught (you always catch me but never seem to want to keep me).

I went to a play last night, a series of vignettes, that really reminded me too much of my life. It began with an over-eager girl, in love with her boyfriend who was eternally clueless. A crazy woman came next, saying goodbye to her estranged husband while carrying the pieces of her broken heart--slate, which is great for roofing--who had them fixed by an over-eager repairman with a knack for badly timed "I love you"s. Then it was a laundry room, with a neurotic woman and a man who can't feel pain, who's list of "What to Be Afraid Of" and "What Will Hurt Me" included love, and women, respectively. The poor man in the lonely corner of the bar came next, watching the woman he once loved walk away to a bachorlette party in which he was not the bachelor. He was peeling labels off of beer bottles in the same way I fiddle with my fingers and twirl my hair. Perhaps the one that stuck with me the most was the story of Hope and Danny, only because it could be a scene from my future. If a boy asks you to marry him right before you go off to college, do you say yes and stay in Almost, Maine? Or do you say I will give you an answer after I sleep on it and leave without saying goodbye? What's worse? Unfinished business or a potentially unfinished life? After hearing a beautiful monologue on losing hope and waiting for hope to return and watching Hope leave, I couldn't help but feel like I'd written similar words before and that scared me.

I may be grasping at straws here but I like to think that somewhere you cared enough about me to maybe someday look back and hope that I will return. I don't make promises I can't keep so I won't say that I will, but maybe? I mean, you were the one who told me pretty adamantly that giving in to lost faith never works, so I hope you practice what you preach.

It would be nice to hear from you again, even if it's just to tell me you have fallen in love again with a girl who isn't me. Contrary to your belief, I can handle just about anything you throw my way. Where's the curveball? Mix it up a little. This predictable gameplay of "I was dumped in the worst way." (fastball) "I've really missed you." (slowball) "I still feel something." (knuckleball) is getting redundant and boring. If I can predict everything you will pitch without a catcher at your homeplate I think it's safe to say that you need a new strategy (pitchingcoach).

I've played this game before. You may be surprised when I win.