Summer Repertory season, over. Last wrap party, wrapped. Each of our bags, packed. Two car engines revving impatiently to take us to our distant homes; mine in San Francisco, his in San Diego. Time for goodbye.
He and I sit on the curb, legs stretched out in front of us, each clutching a terry cloth towel. Every time we looked into each other’s eyes and try to speak, we burst into tears and sob into our towels.
An exasperated, “Come on, you guys!” guilted us into the cars.
Knowing it was a summer romance didn’t help.