At first, John and I flirted shamelessly by email,
as if I still lived in the basement with him, as if I weren't on the opposite coast.
I'd be ready to click on the scroll bar
if there were footsteps in the hall.
"Dreamed about you last night, dear," he wrote
and told me he was going to the Prime market
to buy some low-ash catfood for little Ezra
and some limes to make gimlets.
He sent "hello" from a mutual friend.
A new experimental method looked promising.
He had time on the big microscope: "The SEM is going well, lots of beautiful collagen at 14,300X."
Then — when was it? — maybe as early as February,
he'd be going out for pizza, to a movie, to that expensive bar
at the only Japanese restaurant in town.
In one message he named five movies he'd seen over the weekend.
The Gods Must Be Crazy. Witness. Casablanca and The African Queen at the York Square.
The film society had shown Ninotchka.
His messages became lists, no details, even though we still flirted off and on.
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