She pops onto Skype and sends a waving emoticon at me through a chat window.
I hit the video call button, as it seems repetitive to send another one back.
She’s laying down on her couch, wrapped in a Hudson’s Bay blanket. Sick, she tells me. She nods to my blanket cape. Migraine, I say. Collective sigh. Updates on life in the last few weeks since I’ve seen her. I ask her how the weight of her ring feels. She laughs, weird.
She shows me pictures of the wedding, which I was at, but can’t seem to recall all that clearly even though it was only a few weeks ago. Everything looks different airbrushed. She tells me she is submitting them to a magazine called Real Life Weddings, or somewhat. I bite my tongue about to make sarcastic comment on the name of the magazine. She, however, can see through my “poker face” and tells me to go ahead.
I tell her about the job I almost applied for earlier in the day, and we make a pro/con list about contract work and moving. Had this conversation been taking place 5 years ago the outcome would have been different, but even in my restless state, I can feel the roots starting to poke through. I want a bigger reason to jump ship besides just the money. Yet if you’re planning on moving back East anyway, what’s stopping your from taking a contract job in the city over now?
Nothing. Everything. Because at the end of that contract it would mean I’d really have to move back.
I just don’t know, is this it?