(Miranda July)
It felt like an intervention.
Curled tightly into the couch in a matching flannel pyjama set; wet hair, dry skin.
I clutched a crystal glass of grappa in one hand and kept the index finger of the other inside page 372. It stayed there the whole hour, saving my place, so that at the end of it all, I could return to where I was and pick up as if nothing had happened.
I've been staying quiet about it, but they know to ask. Teary-eyed, I say something like, "I'm just gonna tough it out through the summer."
(I think everything will get better when the weather gets warmer).
I'm tired of telling old stories to new people. The experiences like some sort of bartering chip: I'll trade you this anecdote for an hour of your time. I just need a friend.
I've been leaving my fingers in, thinking I'll go back.
But where will I go back to? And will the words still read the same?
