Losing Lori

I saw you today.

Not someone else.

You. On a screen. A glass screen. I couldn't touch you. I couldn't talk to you. I couldn't really even see you that well but I got one close up when the camera panned in on your face, and it was you. It was you in the flesh, sort of, Lori.

You were on a long red carpet. I guess you're in California or something now, huh? You had your arm around some man's waist and he was looking down at you with love in his eyes, the kind that's way too obvious to just ignore and pass off as friendship. That made me angry. You weren't pushing him away. You weren't shrugging him off, like you used to do to me.

I could hear your voice. I heard your name being announced. Lori Goldsman. I haven't said it out loud in a while, no one I know has. You're like a ghost around here to them, but not to me. Just to the point where I can't say your name. That's it, that's all. It's not that bad, really.

You were speaking to who ever was behind the camera, and I don't even know what it was about. All I know is that your accent stood out from theirs - the way you said "you", mostly - and that's what held my attention. Your voice. Your sweet, penetrating, lovely voice.

I turned the television off after an hour. I couldn't take it anymore.

He was looking at you like he owned you and it made me sick. Is that what you wanted from me? Bossiness, possessiveness? Did you want me to slap you around, abuse you, call you names? Because something tells me that he does.

Or maybe it's just wishful thinking.