That I’ll recognize you in the coffee shop after all these years, that you’ll see my long scraggly mop and pierced nose as the bell chimes over the door knowing it’s me, and you’ll stand from the loveseat and open your arms. That we’ll refill our mugs until our fingers jitter, our hearts race, until the baristas side-eye us near closing, two women on the wrong side of forty with Cheshire cat smiles and laughing to tears, saying remember when so-and-so jumped the bonfire with her vaulting pole, saying I hear he runs the bank downtown now. That you’ll ask me to dinner because it’s been too long and maybe, if I’m up to it, we can split a cheesecake for dessert and play what was once our favorite game, the one you always said was better than truth or dare, the one that revealed a week before graduation that I was moving away, packed and ticket in-hand for a city across the country, that I wasn’t bringing you. That behind all these three wishes is me searching for the courage to tell you I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.