“Oh Min, please don’t say maybe like that.” “OK, yes,” I said, as the coffee rolled down inside me. I felt embarrassed, boarding the 6, to still say I was angry about something two buses ago. Trick-or-treaters sat across from us, young with the dad madly scrolling through something on his phone. Total strangers, is what I thought. If I was still mad I was alone, Saturday night, Halloween, on the bus. “Yes, OK? But I’m still mad.” “That’s fair,” you said, but I didn’t want you smiling. “Still.” “You told me, Min. And I’m still sorry and this is us.” “I know.” “No, our stop, I mean. Time to get off.” And we did, to the cemetery, hushed and welcome in the chilly dark, knowing the Ball was still coming, this stupid bad night. Our feet crackled and trampled on the shadowy grass. “Are you sure you want to go?” “Yes,” I said. “My friends—look, I went to your thing.” “OK.” “So you have to suffer through mine. Anything, you said.” “Yes, OK.”
