Slightly dead inside.

From the top of the hill, I inhale a deep gulp of fresh air, I mentally snapshot the beautiful day, and remember that he’s confined to a prison cell.

I pass the girl who hikes in a bikini top, and I know I’ll never be that thin. I make another lap as punishment.

He sits. He plays cards. He waits. Before he was transferred, I made visiting him part of my routine. Through the plexiglass, he’d be happy to see me, but I think he wished more of his friends hadn’t already forgotten about him. He had begun to grow a beard before he was arrested. With each visit, he looked more and more like a criminal, as his baby blue jumpsuit became part of his skin; he acted like he belonged there.

I run down the hill, as not to waste time; I have an appointment to get my hair dyed at one o’clock. I wonder how long it will take to break in my new shoes.

I order him books from Amazon, and give him all the extra money I can. I wish I could do more. I didn’t plan for this. Nobody did. He calls me to thank me from a phone card that cost him twenty dollars. His family is in the Philippines. I wonder if he knows that Mother’s Day was Sunday. I wonder if they celebrate it in the Philippines.

A song comes on my iPod, which was written by another friend of mine. The lyrics, morose and intelligent, make me wonder if he's okay. Probably not.

I get a letter from prison. He writes, “I miss having a life.” I wish mine had more meaning. I've chosen my emotional investments poorly. In prison, nothing is his. Nothing is personalized, except for a number, printed neatly onto a hospital band, and snapped to his wrist. I know it by heart: 1832856.

I return home to change out of my workout clothes. I glance at the stack of money on my dresser. I need to go to the bank. I pack a pre-sliced piece of angel food cake into a ziplock bag and stuff it into my purse, in case I get hungry while I'm getting my hair dyed. I leave my apartment with enough time to find parking before my appointment. During the drive, I contemplate going to Vegas later on in the week. The hair salon is trendy and keeps me waiting. A lady named Veronica does my hair. I like it. What does it matter?

He's dead for two years, one if he's lucky. His resurrection will be awkward. He'll be born again, a sad person. I don't know if I want to be there to witness it.