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
end of field book 1
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