Get on plane, check. Write some e-mails, check.

to: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]
02.07.08 11:49:52
from: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]

Are you back?

Are you still coming? I'm at Summer Place. The bartendress has just made me some ridiculous concoction that tastes of pineapple and vaguely of vodka though I'm sure there is a lot of vodka actually in it. Pray for me, and get here soon. Your phone is going straight to voicemail. --Alan

Sent from my iPhone

to: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]
03.07.08 12:43:17
from: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]

RE: Are you back?

I walked in the door, saw your e-mail, then ran across the street to see if you were still there. I'm sure you already know that you were not.
I missed my flight. I missed it because I was up until 5 or 6 last night and then finally retired to something that was not quite sleep, but rather some kind of eyes-closed laying about in a humid, still apartment waking every half hour or so everytime one of us moved. I missed it because when I finally got home to Crystal and Amanda's at 9 this morning, I had probably only had a cumulative hour or so of sleep so far and so I dozed most of the day away in Crystal's bed watching nature shows. I missed it because I spent my early evening cleaning my best girlfriends' kitchen because they threw a BBQ for me on Monday and I wanted it to look nice when they got home from work and I was gone, and I wanted to do the dishes and chainsmoke with Lauren and try and come to grips with what happened last night before I got on the fucking plane.

The truth? I knew I was going to miss it. I just didn't care.

Tomorrow, after I get off work @ 10, we can chat. I'm sure that tomorrow, much like last night, I will want to do just about anything not to feel. Alan, I don't want to feel this. At all. And I'm not quite sure what to do save drink and work and fuck it all off my shoulders.

'Til then.

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