—Do you plan to tell the doctor all my secrets?
—She won’t be testing for secrets.
—Suppose I tell her yours?
—You don’t remember them.
—That’s not fair.

—Will you come in with me?
—If the doctor wants me to.
—What if I want you to?
—Then yes, if she lets me.
—I never meant to live this long.
—I’m not happy about it either.

—What should we take to the party?
—He’s your brother.
—But what if he were your brother?
—Then it would be my choice.
—I’m going to need you to pay for it.
—That doesn’t make it my choice.

—Give me your hand.
—You can have both.
—This is your life line. Head line. Heart line.
—I thought you said I didn’t have a heart.
—See this break? That’s a trauma you survived.
—It must be when I met you.
—Then I should have one too. Oh look. Nothing. You’re not significant enough for my life line.
—Maybe I wasn’t traumatic.

—What should we bring for a gift?
—I’ll take you shopping later.
—Are you baking a cake?
—Very funny. I ordered the cake.
—Do we need a gift then too?
—That’s up to you.

—Did we decide you’re coming in with me?
—I’ll ask if the doctor wants me to.
—Don’t go! No. We’ll wait.
—We could ask together.
—What sort of doctor is she?
—Don’t you remember?

—That man is listening to us.
—What else can he do?
—Is he looking at me?
—Every man looks at you. Secretly.
—Really? Do you look at me?
—Yes, but I think about other women. Secretly.
—I knew it.

—Are you coming in with me?
—Your doctor said no.
—Will you be here when I come out?
—Of course, sweetheart. How can you ask that?

Copyright © January 20, 2008 David Hodges