Very small thoughts: I saw you with your son. My windows were down so I could smell the city when I passed through. I miss you. Your son had his hand in yours and he was talking about jellybeans on red cupcakes. I was stopped at a red light. Honking would have scared you both. You might have seen me. I was only driving through. I never thought you would have a son. I also never thought I would have a car.

Remember -- the last time I saw you we were behind the restaurant and I was sixteen years old, watching you land a punch and lose your job. Your neck was long and perfect and the rest of you was long and awful. I was long and I was terrible, too, but I'd never punched anyone. After then I knew how. That night was the end of anything I'd thought might begin between us, back when we were both on late shifts, closing and taking home whatever garlic knots were left.

It's possible to run through all this while a light is red and a car is stopped, but when a light is green and a car is gassed, I remember that I don't remember your name and that I want to be married by the fall.