If we were to meet again and should I somehow ramble to break the awkward silence, this is what I would have told you:

Today I went to sample music at HMV, but my big hoop earrings got in the way of the headphones. So I removed the earrings to listen to Bright Eyes speak on the first track of his latest album. He told a story about a quiet stranger who sat beside a girl on a plane ride, and the plane developed a technical glitch and the pilot apologised that they were going to crash. So the girl turned to ask the stranger where they were headed for, and the stranger said they were going to a birthday party. Her birthday party. And I leaned my head against the wall as I listened intently, my pocket full of earrings you've never seen before.

Hello. You would have liked this song.

Or maybe I would have said more. Maybe I would reveal that I'm now reading a graphics novel called "Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth", and Jimmy wasn't really the smartest kid on earth though the book could darn well be the saddest.

Or that the neighbourhood library is now operating daily from 10am to 9pm, minus public holidays of course. And if we were still together, I would have laughed and jokingly told you to offer our firstborn to the library in gratitude.

Or maybe I would have held out my wrist for you to see how I had succumbed and got myself just today, an orange rubber wristband though I was so against them. I would tell you it's for charity, but yes I was secretly gleeful to wear it anyway.

And if you would smile indulgently and say nothing, we could stand still forever.