Here's the first effort a day early, as I'm traveling April Fool's.
Left the barbershop newly trim and clean, smelling slightly different, fresh faced and a bit dreamy from the hot towels and the straight razor; my face burning, after foamed, lathered, massaged, plied and scraped. Half a block later, in the same seconds, I received, and read your note, turned and saw you, perhaps twenty yards away, in the park, your hands casually in hand. That beating thing in me jumped, sank; it looked as if you were arguing. It climbed up my throat, stuck there. Before arriving home, I stopped and drank it down. My heart, my heart.