She, her, myne.

“You aren’t coming back until January. Wow, that is too long,” she says, sounding concerned. “My lease runs out February 1, and then I am moving to Toronto.”

“Wow,” I answer her. “Off to become a Canadian citizen; off to eat maple syrup on a full-time basis. Wow, good luck.”

Why don’t you come to Washington, D.C. to visit me I ask her.

“Oh, wow I would really love to come to D.C.,” she says, sounding excited.

I don’t hesitate even one second when I answer, “Well, anytime you want to come you are more than welcome.”

We both seem overly excited at the prospect of spending time together in our Nation's capital.

Tonight was the first time we spoke since that night last March when I told her that I didn’t want to be her friend anymore -- that night when I told her that she was self-centered and that she didn’t care about anyone but herself.

When she began to cry, I gave her one last strong hug, and then I walked back towards my school; I finished my sophomore year of college; I went home to New Jersey for the summer, and then came to Washington, D.C. for a semester. She stayed in Pittsburgh and worked at a coffee shop.

“I have really missed talking to you this long time,” she says. “We used to be such good friends.”

“I know,” I answer her, knowing that in my heart we used to be so much more than just good friends. “I have missed talking to you too.”

What is there to be said that I haven’t said one million times before, I ask myself?

“That voice: it kills me.”

“That laugh: it makes me smile.”

“Her hopes: they make me hopeful.”

“I am a loner,” she tells me. “I work Monday through Friday and then I spend the weekends alone.”

“I feel asleep at 7 o’clock before because I was so bored,” I answer her, making it almost sound like we are having a competition. “I don’t think I really like it here in D.C. I think I am ready to spend the next 10-years of my life in Pittsburgh.”

She tells me that she will always come and visit -- I want to tell her that I would rather travel with her for the rest of my life.

“I hate it that you are only going to be around for one month before I leave again,” she says.

I agree with her. I hate it too I tell her. All the while my memories of her are floating back as “Usonian Dream Sequence” by Geoff Farina plays in the background.

“I hate it too, but I can’t wait to see you again.”

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