Streetside Conversation

Yesterday I started walking toward the intersection of activity that is our town. (It being a gorgeous day, and not one ounce bitter.)

Through the doors of the movie theater busted out a young couple—I put them both at seventeen—and her look said it all. Her look said, I cannot believe you did that again and this time I just may not forgive you. He was turned toward her—crooked, pleading, what did I do? why are you mad? why won't you at least hold my hand?—and then, all of a sudden, his expression broke into something huge and grateful, something approximating understanding. "Is that why you are mad?" he started saying. "That's it? That's the reason?" He was practically dancing now, he was going on with all the antics of relief, and the more he crowed over his exquisite epiphany, the angrier she got. Now her expression was all, You idiot, why didn't you get that in the first place, and will you stop your jumping up and down?, and why would you think just understanding is enough?; understanding is nothing; you better fix it, while his kept being, I get it, I get it, I don't have to guess anymore, I'm done, I'm free.

Seventeen, I thought. Seventeen. And there it is. The future in script.