Thursday night, your stockings needed mending.


I have been packing, yes. And I have been sorting, and I have found some things.

In a box on a shelf in my bedroom, I found a very old notebook--one that I used when Sam and I lived on 88th and Nesbitt. Inside the notebook was not only our old quote log, but in the very back was ten or fifteen phone numbers all written on individual slips of paper taped into the back with scotch tape. One of them was yours. The original one, in your handwriting.

I was transported back to my see-through grey polo and light grey cotton drawsting skirt, and the balcony, and me barefoot, and you very tall, and then to your maroon Subaru that you took me in back to my light blue '79 Volvo GT that was parked down on Elliot in front of my boss's house. I don't know if you remember--and honestly, I thought this was an invention of my memory before I saw it again with my own eyes--but that morning when we traded middle names and phone numbers I remember thinking how odd it was that you trusted me enough to write your phone number on the back of the carbon copy of one of your checks--account number and all.

Now, of course, it seems utterly ridiculous that you wouldn't trust me with your account number, but at the time it was less than twelve hours of our meeting, and on this September 26th, it will have been four years since that day.

That day, that day after Cabaret at The Circus, barring the bet I won by meeting you the one thing on my mind was the amazing night I had spent with my two best girlfriends, Sam and Jen. It's odd to think that what is left is you and I, because that morning, even with the middle names and account numbers and phone numbers, I never thought I would see you again.

Damn, see how they run.

I'm glad I did see you again.

And I love you. Dearly.

Kisses to Laura.

No comments: