Cursed Condiments

Our parting was brief, and bitter like the ketchup I put on my omelette that morning - the same spicy ketchup you hate, that you choked on and spilled onto the checkered cloth.

You were going to some big-name school in California, where you would be hanging around with fancy, rich, kids - splashing around in their big pools and feeling the sizzling sun of LA on your bag.

I was staying here in our small east-coast town, standing at the bus stop in the frosty weather and swatting thoughts of you from my mind.

I would see you, for sure, on my 6” phone screen and probably on the news someday - but I would never know you like I did when we stood in my kitchen, laughing about cursed condiments.