Wednesday Passover
It's almost time.
Unless of course he's late.
She's too tired to fight him anymore and really, traffic is insane these days.
That's why she picks Aaron up after school and spends an hour and fifteen minutes at The Second Cup waiting for Chris to show up.
The hand off.
The passover.
Wednesday afternoon to Thursday night, every second weekend, alternating high holidays.
It used to be a hassle but they've settled into a quiet, comfortable groove.
Surprising themselves at how much better they are as co parents than partners.
Better friends than lovers.
Taking the long way around.
The same table every week, tucked into the corner on the club chairs with the noisy fabric.
She smuggles in a juice box and over ripe banana but makes sure to fork out for a medium sized hot chocolate with extra whip to justify their monopolizing of real estate.
It's prime time, this 4 to 5:15 pm slot.
The same faces every week.
She wonders where their passovers take place.
Aaron licks the whip from his hands.
He's fidgety these days, anxious, unfocused.
It's that age, Chris says.
I was like that then, too.
Yet she sees so much of herself in him.
Now more than ever.
Awkward, excitable, easily enraged.
Quick to dissolve to tears yet fearless in laughter and flights of imagination.
She forgets at times he has another genetic blueprint forming him.
One to two to three, all together.
Then 3 to 2 to life on her own.
A continual passing over.
Unless of course he's late.
She's too tired to fight him anymore and really, traffic is insane these days.
That's why she picks Aaron up after school and spends an hour and fifteen minutes at The Second Cup waiting for Chris to show up.
The hand off.
The passover.
Wednesday afternoon to Thursday night, every second weekend, alternating high holidays.
It used to be a hassle but they've settled into a quiet, comfortable groove.
Surprising themselves at how much better they are as co parents than partners.
Better friends than lovers.
Taking the long way around.
The same table every week, tucked into the corner on the club chairs with the noisy fabric.
She smuggles in a juice box and over ripe banana but makes sure to fork out for a medium sized hot chocolate with extra whip to justify their monopolizing of real estate.
It's prime time, this 4 to 5:15 pm slot.
The same faces every week.
She wonders where their passovers take place.
Aaron licks the whip from his hands.
He's fidgety these days, anxious, unfocused.
It's that age, Chris says.
I was like that then, too.
Yet she sees so much of herself in him.
Now more than ever.
Awkward, excitable, easily enraged.
Quick to dissolve to tears yet fearless in laughter and flights of imagination.
She forgets at times he has another genetic blueprint forming him.
One to two to three, all together.
Then 3 to 2 to life on her own.
A continual passing over.
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