‘Timmay!’ they shout. They want my attention. ‘Timmay!’
I turn and look at them– two attractive thirty-something year olds holding a bottle of champagne and a martini. I smile and look back for the tram. There is a girl on a bicycle at the traffic lights. She says, ‘They’re not exactly the poster for alcohol.’
I say, ‘Or romance.’
We smile at each other- two city girls seeking poetry in urbanity.
I spend the entire trip home writing philosophical iliads to loved ones. I write about feeling alive, of deceitful perception, of being loved.
When I step off the tram, my cardigan falls off one shoulder and I let it. I run along the pavement ust for the hell of it. I expose my shoulders. The pocket of my collarbone catches raindrops. The moon glows behind the inkblot clouds. These moments are what make my life.
Yesterday I sat on the front porch and wrote letters and danced and smoked. These moments make my life.
It is late and I should sleep. I have work tomorrow and I have drunk too much and not eaten enough. But there is lightning at the window –God being obsessive-compulsive with his light-switches. And writing is living and I’m not sure what sleep is.
She told me that as soon as you are intimate with someone you become special to them, regardless of the conclusion. We are so much more signficant than we think we are. And if we’re not, that’s okay too.