I looked over at him.
And Jeffrey held out his pinky finger.
The Promise
“If we’re both still single at sixty, we stop being idiots and find each other.”
I stared at his hand in the dark.
He wasn’t laughing anymore. That’s the thing I’ve thought about for forty-one years. He had completely stopped laughing.
“Jeffrey.”
“I’m serious.”
“Why sixty?”
“Because if we haven’t figured it out by sixty, we obviously need help.”
I Hooked My Pinky Around His
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
And for one second, neither of us moved. His hand stayed there. My hand stayed there.
I remember thinking, very clearly, you should say something right now.
I didn’t.
Two months later he left for college three states away.
The First Year of Letters
We wrote constantly.
Long letters, four and five pages. Birthday cards. Christmas cards with things drawn in the margins.
He told me about a roommate named Gary who never once in two semesters cleaned anything, including himself. I told him about working the circulation desk at the public library while I took classes at the community college.
