Ships

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday. She's still searching for that one, the man who will know and love her.

"He's out there," she said. "Somewhere. And he's looking for me, too, even if he doesn't know it. I've got to hold on until I meet him. Then it will be...wonderful."

"I hope so," I said, thinking that she was waiting for her life to begin, but that was her choice, and hadn't we had this conversation a thousand times before? I wasn't the one for her. I was just her friend. That's what she wanted from me.

I was talking to a friend of mine in Tulsa last week. He needs to get married, he says. He's so lonely. Somewhere there's a woman for him, he says. He's got to keep searching.

"Good luck," I said, thinking of the many times he had told me of his fruitless search and how he could fill his life with so many things. But I didn't say anything. I'm his friend. I support him even if his quest never ends.

Another person would have matched them up. Would have thought that fate was bringing them together, but I know better. I introduced them at a party a few years back. I thought maybe some sparks would fly. I even questioned them about the meeting later.

"Too old," she said. "Too plump," he said.

"Too out of shape," she said. "Too much make-up," he said.

"Too intellectual," she said. "Too young," he said.

And so they go on, ships that pass deliberately in the night.