I can see it now.
My best friend will sit beside me in her chair,
rocking as we laugh about past mistakes,
screaming at children to get off the lawn.
She has never had a boyfriend,
as if she recognizes
that nobody has been worth the effort.
Her skin, smoother than a caramel latte,
though she would rather I say Bailey’s Irish Cream.
We always read the back of the wine bottle,
like it’s going to predict what will happen to us.
She joins me on the couch
so we can become stuck like slugs in the mud,
soaking our cheesecake in tears of sarcasm,
and watching movies that remind us
of something that we have never known.
My best friend is expecting me.
She can see it too.