Forty-Five Minutes

I sat in my car for forty-five minutes

watching other cars come and go.

The white lines on the asphalt

were painted perfectly,

dividing everything

into spaces that belonged to someone.

I was parked alone on one side,

the side closest to the street,

away from the entrance.

Everyone else was clustered

near the café door,

their cars close together,

like they knew each other,

like they had a right to be there.

Through the windows,

I could see people laughing.

The kind of laugh that doesn't care

about timing,

about showing up,

about someone sitting alone

in a parking lot.

I waited because maybe they were late.

I waited because maybe they forgot

what time we said.

I waited because I'm always the person

who waits.

After forty-five minutes,

I started the car.

The oil stains on the pavement

looked like spilled plans,

like something that couldn't be cleaned up,

like the evidence

of all the people

who sat here waiting

and then gave up.

I drove home

and didn't send a message.

I just sat in my apartment

and tried not to need

anything from anyone.