In Limine

Don’t look down, I say, but of course you do. You all do.
Who’s that?
I follow the direction of your mitted hand and squint at the figure emerging from the darkness, summoned forth by your childish curiosity.
Ah. That’s who you would be if you went for a coffee with the guy sitting next to you in that literature class, the one with the kind eyes. You’d have a date that same weekend and then - I’ll skip the boring parts - marriage, two kids, couple counselling. You’d still divorce -
Divorce?
Separate, disconnect, divide, disunite, sever -
I trail off and the figure fizzles out like a burnt match. You are not listening, already skipping ahead, looking down, searching, pointing.
And that?
You, only this time you say no to the guy. You still get the marriage, the two kids, the couple counseling and the divorce, but with the woman with the loud laugh you meet at the Eagle the night you graduate. You’ll spill your G&T down her blouse and later that night you’ll claim that you can taste it on her skin -
G&T?
It’s a drink, I say, but you don’t care about that, you don’t care about the answers, none of you do. You are here for the questions.
And who is that?
You, again. That too. And that - that one doesn’t get the marriage, doesn’t get to graduate either. You cross the road running after that rainbow ball you got for your fourth birthday and -
I remember the ball, you say and turn to look at me at last.
Who are you? You ask and I hold out my hand. You stare at the onyx ring on my finger, hesitate.
Take my hand and find out, I say, and of course you do. You all do.