One Mulligan

I lost a friend today.  He packed up his things, sublet the apartment, got in the car and drove away.   Not far from here, but far enough so we won't be seeing each other much. "Will e-mail," were his last words when we said Goodbye, as if that didn't go without saying nowadays.   Heck, we e-mailed each other when he was here, and I regularly exchange e-mails with people on three continents.

Let's roll the film back a month.  "She called me, wants to get back together," he told me as we were sipping our usual cappuccinos in a  downtown cafe.  "After two years?" I said. "A year and nine months," he replied, and I thought that like some people he counted the number of weeks or even hours since the event. Still, a few months ago, it must have been in July, he told me he had finally gotten over her, and now this.

"And what did you say?" I asked.

"I told her I'd think about it.  Has anything like it ever happened to you, a girlfriend coming back?"

"Once when I was nineteen," I said.

"And since then, didn't you always think or hope that it would, could, should happen again?"

"Yes, and it never did.  Fate gives us just one mulligan per lifetime."

Then, he decided.  He didn't ask my advice and I didn't offer unsolicited words of wisdom. What was I to say?  Let him enjoy his mulligan while it lasts.