Me and My Imagined Ex
- Oct 29, 2021
- 1 min read
by Pat Foran
Me and my imagined ex, we would meet at the empathy booth on Today and Tomorrow streets. Nice day for some empathy, my imagined ex would say.
Me and my imagined ex, we would remember, but not talk about, the undecorated days, the days we shared sweet potato popsicles at every loading dock in town, wearing arm-pocket sweatshirts and forklifting small talk with our feet.
Me and my imagined ex, we would trade emails with snappy subject lines like “Effortless Dressing Made Even Easier,” and, if we would forget our once, our were or ourselves in the melody of the messaging space, we would sing in shorthand about what passes for kindness these days.
Me and my imagined ex, we wouldn’t actually be friends, I don’t think. We would be hypotheticals. Hair pins. Petals. Pink and white ones that helicopter from a crabapple tree, petals that whirl and wick as the wind, from a photo booth on Yesterday Street, wonders who’s been doing all this whispering on the conditional sly. Nice day for some sepia tones, the wind would say. A nice day for sepia tones, “what’s past is prologue” tattoos, and pink and white popsicles.
On metaphysical weekends, Pat Foran volunteers at an empathy booth on the sunny side of Sisyphus Street. His work has appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Wigleaf, Milk Candy Review and elsewhere. Find him at https://neutralspaces.co/patforan/ and on Twitter at @pdforan.
