17 october 00

You know, you're the only person who comes here every day. You're probably the only person who comes here at all. Nothing changes in a month and still you continue to check, just in case.

I was thinking about that july night in your kitchen two summers past, hiding from the stupidity in your livingroom. You and your friend had been drinking wine since 5 or 6 that evening. I had made dinner for someone who hasn't been back to my apartment since. I don't remember what was playing on the stereo, which is odd. You were talking about your heart, and about perseverance, and I knew that meeting you was the best possible thing that could have happened to me that summer. You squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek and hugged me hard before we walked back into the livingroom, immune to everyone else. I'm better off now than I was two years ago in countless ways, but falling out of touch with you is not one of them. I can't afford it.

I got us tickets to the Jeanette Winterson reading next month. I hope you can still come.