February 6

2/6

I was depressed two nights ago. I won't tell you why I was depressed, except that it involved men with whom I was not in love. When I am depressed, talking to Christopher is the only thing that can make me feel any better. So I called him.

I told him why I was depressed. He helped me see the whole situation as the farce it was, and we laughed. Then I asked him what he had done that day, and he said he was getting ready to move to Chicago on Monday.

I have never been punched in the solar plexus but I don't think it would feel much different that how I felt in that moment. When I had my breath back, I managed to say, “Wow! Great! So sudden!" He had told me he was going to Chicago to attend his best friend's wedding in the spring, but he never hinted he would leave so soon.

“Yeah, it's the most sudden move of my life,” he said, with some pride.

We talked about stuff and things for a few hours and then at one the conversation came around to Chicago again. My throat didn't feel like it would let me talk much longer, so I tried to street the conversation to a close.

“Well, I'd say I'll miss you, but it'll be just the same in the end,” I said. I meant that we'd still be hours and hours apart, unable to see each other beyond pixelated buffering versions on a screen, unable to touch each other's hands or feel each other's skin. We'd have exactly the same amount of contact.

“Say it anyway,” he said. But I couldn't. “I'll miss you,” he said.

“What is there to miss?”

“Why do you have to ask that?”

“I don't think I'll ever see you again,” I said.

“We can still Skype.”

“No, I don't want to Skype you anymore. It'll just make me sad.”

“Don't say that. We'll see each other again.”

“In ten years, right?” I remembered what he said about settling down. “You'll have long hair down your back. And you'll finally be able to grow a beard.”

He laughed his open laugh and I don't remember what nonsense we said after that but I remember that my throat was so tight by the end of it that I could barely say goodbye when I hung up. I thought I would never be able to fall asleep, but bodies always surprise you and I woke up to the red sun over Prospect Hill as usual. And moving was difficult but I washed and dressed and studied Mary Barton until it was time to go to class.

“Write me a postcard from Chicago,” I texted him afterward.

“You'll hate my handwriting. I write like a right-handed ten year old writing with his left hand.”

“I wouldn't hate anything from you.”

“Ok, but I warned you.” When I finished bundling up to face 

Massachusetts winter he sent another: “You're making me regret leaving New York. I can't wait ten years!” And another: “But if I have to, I will, for you.”

Wax-sealed parchment envelopes, delicate notepaper scented with rosewater – they are overrated. I don't think any expensive stationery could have made me feel more than those green rounded boxes on my screen did. “Just know that I waited 20 years to meet you and if I live another 20 I can wait that long again,” I wrote.

“First, I want to talk to you tonight,” he responded. “Second, I'm going into the subway right now, so I won't be able to text for 30 minutes." 30 minutes later: “Third, I can't write anything sufficient to what I feel, but yes – 10, 20 years I can wait but if I had full control over when I can see you next, it would be in 2 seconds.”

I had to see him. I had to touch him. I had to run my cold anemic fingers over the gnarled pneumonia surgery scars on his ribcage. But I knew I couldn't, so I had to call him instead. I asked him when he was free.

“For you?” he wrote. “Always.”

end of field book 1