posted by Anonymous @ 10:38 PM
10.27.2005
On the wall next to my bed I've got the strip of paper from my fortune cookie taped underneath the picture of you with lettuce hanging out of your mouth: "Relax and spend some time with a loved one." If I could, I'd find a bar here exactly like the one we sat at in Montreal. I'd sit with my elbows on the dark polished wood and marvel at the different types of glasses hanging above me. I'd get a margarita and a cosmopolitan and drink them all by myself and maybe I'd be so happy I'd laugh and talk to the bartender all night about you. Maybe I'd be so sad I'd cry and smoke a cigarette and talk to the bartender all night about you. I can see it going either way. Lying in my bare bed with all the sheets and blankets and pillowcases in the wash, with my throat aching from my (our) cold, it feels like I'm in some sort of infirmary. A visit would be nice. And some warm food. It's been hard to eat since I've been back. You spoiled me permanently with those sauteed portabellos and homemade baba ganouj and pancakes. A spoonful of peanut butter here, a paper cup of smoothie there, and I poke at some cold, oily noodles on my tray and feel sick. I want a hot sandwich, and fresh bananas with pure maple syrup, and homemade pasta sauce. I want your nice wide, low to the ground bed instead of the narrow, raised one I'm in now. And oh my god do I want you. I can't imagine any sort of perfection beyond what I imagine next year will be like. And what I imagine next year will be like is almost exactly how I remember last week. With a little bit less of your mother. (Maybe there will be more of mine, though.) It is 1:13 am and I know you're on your way home from work. It's late and I'm hungry and I wouldn't mind going to sleep, but the anticipation is building inside of me as the clock keeps moving. And I guess you know I love you.