Carpets

I had lunch with you today - my long time friend from high school. It's our almost now annual ritual, about the only time we ever meet.

And we talked about trivial things, like how there's not enough time, and how our bodies are starting to show their adulthood. And politics, and children (yours) and new things we are doing or exploring.

But we skirted around the usual topics that used to be fodder for our long telephone conversations in high school. The heartaches, the boys who gave us palpitations, the irritants that our other halves have sometimes become, the coping with wondering whether this is all life has to offer us, and whether we are content with it.

I wanted to reach across the table and grab your hands and tell you that I don't know if I am still in love with my other half enough to see things through. And over-analyse it all, what she said, what she did, what she didn't say or do.

Instead, we focused on our sandwiches. And parted ways, you off to work, me off to scout a handbag that I ultimately didn't buy.

So this is what becomes of old friends. A carpet underneath which everything is swept.