Sitting on the futon, watching a documentary about the Boston Red Sox that seems to be trying to say something larger about American culture, thinking about you.

I anticipate the words on the screen like I anticipate your arrival. Except you aren’t cooperating. And I worry about that in a way that can only be described as unreasonable.

We are on opposing poles, moving toward one another, and one day, you, luminous and strong, will speed by me, and I will catch your scent as you disappear behind me.

I drink as I wait, listening to the voice-over talent and the music up and underneath. I grow disgusted with my gut, heaving between my heavy head and the keyboard.

I wish we were Japanese, bowing to one another with a solemnity we can’t comprehend. I wish we weren’t of this earth. I wish we were two colluding, disruptive, glowing owls.

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