22 Shh, now, listen. Sitting comfortably? Okay, then let's begin: Listen
The Number 22
“22 is a powerful number,” I say. “Oh?” “Yes. I'm not being a hippy or anything, but it's my parent's address.” “Mm-hm. Yes.” I see the frown; but the peaked interest, too. Encouragement to go on, explain. Your mouth twisted that way. O-kay. I seal mine, remembering the feather and crush of your lips last night. The waiting. All my anticipation, creating, and undoing, frustration. “And it's where my brother lives, too. Their new place, you know.” “Uh-huh.” “At least, I think so.” The radio blares, football cheers, voices hoarse. You're twiddling with the digithing. That dial on the radio your sister bought. That you set up for me in the bath that time. Complete, with glass of wine - to help me unwind. Heart FM. Taking me back, 1999. But now, I'm here, I'm with you. “And it's in that story I wrote.” “What?” “22. Well, the play. Weird, isn't it?” “It is?” “Well, yeah,” I say. “The one about that inventor geek and a jaded doctor. They crash together in the strangest way. And, plus, it's that day.” “That day?” “Yes. When I met -” “Ah,” you say. “Yes. True. The number 22. When I met you.”
Thanks for the six, let's make it a dozen...