2001-12-24 - 2:11 p.m.
Monday. 03-12-2001. A day before I depart for Singapore.
I agreed to see you without hesitation. A second after I hung up I wondered why I'd done so. I felt an easy sense of comfort with you. But my altruistic obligation had long ago petered off. And in its place impatient loathe.
You: I'm disappointed in you.
Me: What?
You: You never call. And when I do, you're always busy.
Me: I don't call anyone anymore. And I am always busy.
You: But I'm not just anyone.
Me: -Silence- Weak smile.
You are one I've long wanted to make a no-body in my life.
You: We shared something.
Me: -Silence-
Yes, we shared a bed, your problems, ashtrays. For a long time I lived for us both, with mounting hatred inside me.
We talked. Almost without pauses. I kept looking out at the road. You looked like shit. And I was glad I didn't. You've stopped trivialising me. I found myself less annoyed by you than usual. I was amazed at the solid wall I had laid against you.
We lasted two rounds of drinks. I had to go. Before your tipsy sentimentality began, before I began to think aloud. The bill came, and you paid.
Me: Thanks.
You: I owe you much more than that.
Me: Whatever.
How poetic, your little romanticised memory of us. You bet you owe me more than $23.60. But who's counting. Who did then?
We hugged, you walked off and disappeared into the valley of Prospect Hill Road.
I drove home, surrounded by warm amber, Leonard Cohen playing.
