type as in archetype, pt. 2

A story. Six months later I ran into her again. I want to say it was something like "it was like we'd never been apart," but she'd cut her hair and she wasn't sure if she knew me, either. It was at a cafe and she was just staring at me for what seemed like forever before she came over and said my name, and then said, "I got a typewriter. Would you like to see it?"

And I said sure before I knew who this strange woman was. I probably should have asked just then. I finished my coffee and walked with her to the little place she called home. Never once in all the time I knew her did I ask if it was really a home, and sometimes I feel guilty for that. I have called a lot of places home and these days I'm not even sure what I mean by that.

Then I sat down on her couch, awkwardly. The typewriter was on a little desk in the corner of the room. "Do you want a drink?" she said. She came back with two cans of PBR. She opened one and handed it to me, smiling exactly like she was enjoying herself.

"Can I ask you something?"


"Who are you?"

And she smiled and told me how we'd used the word "we" and it felt so natural six months before, and then she leaned in close, her breath smelling of cheap beer just like it did six months before, and whispered "I'd hoped you'd remembered" in my ear. I wish I could say she kissed me then. I could feel her nose brush my cheek as she moved away and sat at the typewriter. "But I guess six months is a long time."

There had been others before me and there would be others after. I knew that. I didn't know why we both wanted this to be special. I'm not sure if either of us thought it was.

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