7.04.2008

RE: Are you back?

to: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]
03.07.08 10:14:28
from: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]

RE: Are you back?

Miranda,
I'm beginning to feel a little left out. I'm waiting for your call for another half hour or so, and then I'm calling it a night.
That being said, I hope you're okay.

Best,
Alan

to: "Alan Stevenson" [AStevenson@sbcglobal.net]
04.07.08 02:35:57
from: "Miranda Moure" [M@MMoure.com]

A--
I'm so sorry, I swear, it couldn't be helped. That being said, this is going to sound made up.

My best friend got hit by a truck tonight. I was at work when I found out, her building manager had called me because he saw the whole thing, right out on Sutter. I got off work, ran up the hill to my little shithole apartment, changed into some jeans and came over to her apartment down the street, to which I luckily have a key. Then I stole $20 off of her nightstand because I'm broke, grabbed a maccaroni salad out of the fridge because I was starving, and hailed a cab to General because I have no one else here but her.

I feel terrible. I feel terrible because I can't even feel terrible because "husband being detained by INS and I got hit by a truck" trumps "boy I love doesn't want me and missing a days pay". I'm on the verge of tears and I'm not allowed to cry, not that I want to feel anything, anyway.

I don't have time for tears--I have T-shirts to make and stories to write and fuck fuck fuck--I'm so fucking glad she's okay.

On Tuesday night, I finally found parking on First Hill in Seattle, and stumbled down the street barely remembering where I was going as I had only been to Ben's once before. I called him when I was out front, and when he came out to find me, his little poodle in tow, I was a puffy-faced, red-eyed, balling heap on his front stoop, and he carried me inside without little more than a word, set me on his couch, and placed a beer in my hand. He kissed me on the nose and told me I was special, and I remember thinking that I couldn't remember the last time something akin to that had happened.

There's something wrong with me right now, and I can't see what it is or my way out of it. I just know that I have made some mistakes that I am not proud of and I have done things that were correct that I am not happy with and I can't seem to figure out which way to go because every way seems too foreign, and I can't get the vision out of my head of Wood on his front stoop in his boxers before I left, sad and defiant and confused and yet still so unwilling to just fucking tell me what the fuck is going on.

Monday. I promise.

Call me early.
--M

1 comment:

huntsmanic said...

dude. duuuuuuuuuuu-ude. she's really okay? thank god. hope you are, too; holding it together at least. you're making it, yeah? i've oodles of latently moral support to offer, for what that's worth.

sidenote: how'd you get your thingy to become blog.mmoure.com? that's happening.