Friday, November 27, 2015


"Happy birthday," I said. "You're 23, right?"

She pulled a small drag out of her cigarette. "No," she exhaled. "Too old."

I swiveled on my heel, making a half-circle and finally facing away from her. "You're not old enough," I said just within earshot of the two of us.

In just under two hours, my workday begins. I will haul ass across the city from Lakeview to the Lower Garden District. I will make it to my apartment with plenty of time to toss today's outfit in the dryer and stand under the shower. I will glove and scarf and sweater and bicycle my way into the Central Business District. I will go to work. And at noon, I will leave and a lengthy, unmemorable Thanksgiving holiday will commence upon leaving.

But before that happens, I yell, "I love you."

I am approaching my car and she is behind me on the porch. I trudge forward, barley lifting my chin to bark the sentiment over my shoulder.

"I love you," she shouts back.

My first impulse is not to appreciate the moment, but to appreciate the fact that she didn't punctuate her response with a comma and a "too." It's an asshole's reaction, but I know she'll understand when I joke about it later.

I slide the key into the ignition, but I don't turn it. First, I've got to find the right driving music. I scroll and tap my way through Spotify until I find "Dancing In The Moonlight" by King Harvest. It's been in my head all night.

For a few moments, I sit still and listen to the lyrics. And then, when the chorus starts, I twist the key and yank the seatbelt across my chest to keep myself safe.

Monday, November 9, 2015


When 11:11 roles around, I wish that you would text me.

Since Thursday, I’ve never missed an AM or PM opportunity to submit my wish.

Now, it’s Monday morning and I’m up to eight consecutive, ritualistic wishes.

The truth is, I wasn’t aware I was doing it until this very moment.

I just checked my phone, and when I saw the time, I closed my eyes and wished.

I realize how incredibly mystic/passive/nuts this sounds, but it’s really the only action I can control to redirect you back to me.

Sure, I could text you. But then what?

I spend the rest of my day waiting for a reply?

I agonize over every word I wrote, second-guessing the language and grammar?

I fuck this up?

I could grab our relationship with both hands and steer. But for once, I want someone else to take the wheel.

And honestly, I just want to be the recipient of someone else’s impulse.

That’s not stupid, is it?

Texting you could also put what we’ve got in jeopardy.

Because right now, this is delicate and freshly minted.

To me, it’s safer to invest in shooting stars, and genies, and cyclical 12-hour chances.

My birthday isn’t until July, but I can reserve that wish for you, too.

We’ve got all the time in the world, don’t we?