It wasn’t an afternoon I expected to remember.
A friend and I met for coffee because it had been a while. We found a table near the window and settled into the kind of conversation that doesn’t seem to be about anything in particular. We talked about work, about a restaurant we’d both been meaning to try, about a film neither of us thought deserved all the praise it had received. We laughed more than once, drifted into silence a couple of times, then picked the conversation up again without thinking about it.
Eventually the cups were empty.
We walked outside together, stood on the sidewalk for another minute, and said goodbye.
The drive home was uneventful. I waited through a long light. A song I hadn’t heard in years came on the radio. By the time I turned onto my street, I was thinking about what I might make for dinner.
I unlocked the door, dropped my keys into the bowl by the entrance, and filled the kettle. While I waited for the water to boil, I looked out the kitchen window for a moment.
Then it occurred to me.
I hadn’t spent the drive home replaying the conversation.
I hadn’t wondered whether I’d talked too much or said something awkward. I hadn’t searched for hidden meanings in a pause or an expression. I hadn’t rewritten anything in my head.
I’d simply driven home.
I found myself smiling.
The kettle whistled.