Cornered.

We sat in the corner as we had times before. It wasn’t habit, just a preference that never needed a voice. I felt bad, immediately; my noticeable nature, I was there but nowhere to be found. She looked into my eyes and I let myself pass further into the distance. I’ve become someone less. Engaged, she saw me for the first time and I laughed.

I wanted to ask her whether I looked sad or blank. But what would I have done with the answer? I didn’t know. I didn’t really care. For months, I’ve been looking forward to gaining my esteem soon. But I’m not certain it will happen. And if it doesn’t, I wonder how I’ll be, if I’ll excuse myself or just keep waiting.

She left for water. Hurt her back looking at photography on exhibit. Swallowing a pill for pain. Closed my eyes. Envious. “I have something, a small surprise.” Flowers. I hadn’t seen that amount of color in a long time. I was silent. “I’m so proud. You’ve made it happen.” I was silent. “Chelsea…" "It's just you didn’t have to do this. Wherever I am going, whatever becomes of it, and everything that’s already been written is because of you. I don’t deserve these." It’s impossible to decide whether words are the consequence of yourself or the other. But a writer lives for the touch, works toward the story that will say it all; doesn’t move until affected although a writer races and waits, races and erases. "Thank you for caring."

“I’ve been missing you and you’re not gone. You’re here and I’ve already.”
“Things haven’t been the same.”
“I’ve noticed. You’re scattered, exhausted from trying to do too much.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“That isn’t the case.”
“It has to change. I have to change.”
“Things already are.”
“California.”
“You’re suited for San Francisco. It had to happen.”
“So not LA?”
“It’s not a question. You know my first husband and I’s relationship ended because Los Angeles would never be me. You’re the same way.”
“This is certainly true.”

We talked about San Francisco. Neighborhoods. Where I’d live. Your’s, Mine and Ours. Ferlinghetti. The scale of intensity. Manhattan: 10. Berkley: 2. San Francisco: 6. Big Sur. Wine. Romance. Intoxication. We talked about Manhattan and if she’d ever get me back.

“I feel like I’ve lost myself.”
“How does that happen? People find themselves here.”
“Exactly. I did. I thought. In the beginning. But now I can’t remember anything. I have the worst memory you know.”
“All you need is summer.”
“But it became spring yesterday. It’s everyone’s favourite season.”
“You’re doubting yourself.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s happened?”
“I don’t like myself here. At this time I don’t. I’m that type of New Yorker giving the city a bad reputation. I walk in and out of lives. Meet you then I’m gone. And I don’t like doing it, but I do. Out of laziness? Maybe. People say I have priorities but that’s no excuse. People should be the priority. All my friends complain about dating here and I’m worse than men. They follow me home and once we’ve both been had, I ask them to please not try to reach me. They say they want to and somehow, somewhere inside of me, I find it okay to respond that this isn’t about them, it’s about me. I seem complex but it’s all rather simple. It’s Manhattan and I don’t have time.”
“Your honesty will always be admirable.”
“But I don’t think this is how I feel. And if it is, I don’t believe this is how I come close to feeling.”