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Four years waiting for Change and then one day, It knocked politely, but I was lackadaisical getting to the door. I always am, taking the knuckles of any egg-less neighbor or soul-saving missionary or Pest Control Specialist as intrusive, punishable. What good was having a door if people knocked on it? “Just a minute!” I called, but it was longer than I thought to put my robe (floor-length, satin, emerald green) on, run my fingertips over my eyebrows, hum to the cat, “No pouncing, understood?” and by the time I swung the thing open, Change was in the front gardens, doubting if they’d actually heard my voice, to begin with, wondering if I was even home at all.

Then we introduced ourselves and They were callous, impatient, a little off.

It was so hot outside that it pissed me off—July’ll do that to you, bare feet blistering on the sidewalk, and then here comes some idiot, walking their dog, searing their little paw prints onto the cement, and when’s the last time the thing was groomed, anyway? Jesus Christ. The world is burning.—and so I spun around like someone in sweet and velvet love but decidedly done with a fight, stomped back inside. “How I’ve been waiting for you all this time, and when you show up, you’re late and you’re weird and you’re rude!” The slam of the door, arms crossed. Prickled with pride, searing-hot as a fight, I think, “Everyone in the world is mad at me all of the time.”

Then I shrug and I get over it, “You get over everything, you really do,” I swear in that sweet spot between the second drink and the third, a friend of a friend’s kitchen table.

I don’t wait for them to come back, until, finally, of course, I do. I had resolved to never find myself longing again, but here I am, sighing at the clock above the oven, trying not to cry and getting furious when I give myself permission and am unable to. Weakly, quietly, I wonder,“What hotel are you staying at?” “Are you even still in town?”