This Is a Test
Tell me that I can eradicate this responsibility, this accountability, this intelligence. Right here, on Madison Avenue, tell me -- amid the honking cabs and the catcalls and the losers who have to point it out like obvious idiots -- that I don't have to worry anymore. Tell me that I can be stupid for once. Oblivious for once. Unaware of the consequences of my actions and a certified grown-up, whatever that means anymore.
Tell me that I don't have to think about how he already has my belongings in bags, that I wasted the past few years on hope. That my drinking is normal. That I'll smell your soap on me for the next week at least. That I can forget what drove me away from him in the first place. That I'm younger again.
Tell me that this won't be awkward later, that this is a temporary phase of mine and that I, of course, would never do something this ill-thought-out unless the circumstances dictated it. Which they do. Don't they?
But they don't. This isn't.
And I won't.
This is a toe-dip. This is only a test.