I like it when you miss me

September 6, 2010

On that very morning, he noticed the sign in the window above the restaurant:

I miss you. I like it when you miss me.

Though he didn’t know who put the sign in the window, he let himself think of her again, the way she touched her fingertips to his forehead, the time she ran across the busy street impulsively, the last phone call before she slipped from his life as if she’d just been a strange interlude, a dream, a figment.

I will miss you, she’d said.

I would rather you just stayed, he’d replied.

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