memoir

Look who’s the boss of everything.

Something was to arrive at the apartment between 4:30 and 5:30 p.m., but he wouldn’t tell her what it was. He’d just tell her when it was arriving.

Already look who was the boss of everything.

His stuff was in her (their) apartment.
Crazynutso. Right then, he was in her—their—room unpacking his things, while she was busying herself thinking about what not to think about.

She was nervous but fine, and still—she had to panic, at least a little. Foremost about his stuff being in their apartment. All those books and papers. The globes. That decrepit old office chair. The maps in cheap frames. And also that huge barn table she’d been coveting, its beautiful, dark, sturdy wood and its eclectic wooden chairs. There was certainly an assortment of things.

She needed to panic. Then she needed to worry about this delivery, what it was, and how he was apparently bossing everything already; it’d been only two hours since he’d begun moving in. What would happen to her space? To her?

She ought to spend more time worrying about how often and how much she needed to control everything, rather than what she worried about. She knew how generally pointless this worry was.

She worried too much about who was the boss of what. But she was concerned she’d wake up one day to find herself some kind of puppet. Left to wonder who she’d become, exactly, now that she finally saw all the strings.

How did it happen? she’d wonder then. How was it possible she hadn’t noticed before? And now … how would she untangle herself? So unpracticed. Her sense of herself atrophied from disuse. She wasn’t at all in love with herself, but she was afraid of losing her footing just the same.

…

Now, in Brooklyn with Mark, she worried too much about who was the boss of what. It would be better not to think this way, she knew.

So, instead, at that moment, she was trying very consciously to stop ruminating about all this; to focus on Mark moving in —  on not ruining it all by obsessing about a million things that weren’t actually happening— things that were certainly not the important things.

Important things like how fortunate it was that she finally found him, and he, her. She should focus on being a little grateful that they found one another. That they would now come home to the same apartment. This would be their first summer in Brooklyn, living together, in their home.

When 4:30 to 5:30 p.m. finally arrived, he was busily unpacking, and she was wandering around exhausted from her own worry, from worrying about worrying. The buzzer rang. She ran down the two flights of stairs, swung open the door, and signed. In a box addressed directly to her, from the local flower shop: a colorful bouquet of flowers.

A note addressing her said:

Here’s the end of The Hostel at 224.

all my love.

-M

Housemates. [The Rug, pt. 7]

There would be housemates if she left, she thought, staring at the white ceiling, her body spread out across the jagged diamonds. It wasn’t that she didn’t like housemates categorically, although over the years some did cause her a great deal of trouble. What bothered her was the fact that she was young then, but she wasn’t now. Youth and housemates seemed appropriate to one another. But she was nearly thirty-seven, her birthday just months away, and at this new age it did not seem right to live with adults you were not sleeping with. Sleeping in the same bed, she meant, of course, because although Mark and she shared the same bed, of course they hadn’t slept together in ages. That was the problem. Or the symptom. Was it the problem or they symptom? She didn’t know.

In this regard she supposed she already had a housemate. The central difference being that an actual housemate would have their own bed, preferably in their own room. It was true that other than a shared bed, the odd kiss hello or goodbye, a hand every so often placed upon her knee, Mark and a housemate could easily be confused. Which made her think, alternatively: perhaps having a housemate at age 37 would not be so bad after all.

He was not the kind who caused a great deal of trouble; he was a lovely housemate. He was pleasant and tidy. It was true he sometimes left the clean dishes in the dish tray for too long and that his disheveled office resembled a college dorm room, even the odor. Which admittedly was as endearing as annoying. And she knew it was only fair she put away the dishes, since he so often washed them, and that he should have a space of his own that he kept however he pleased. She rarely entered his office, anyway.

Mark was so pleasant and tidy, so discreet and quiet, that she sometimes felt alone in the apartment. But she knew he was there, and she knew he always thought of her. There were clues. For instance: from his less-than-tidy office he often forwarded her links to interesting online articles and reviews of music and TV shows. A spread featuring LCD Soundsystem or a review of the new Wild Beasts album, a YouTube video parodying The Wire, or a feature on Bruce Springsteen.

Each week he set aside the New York Times Sunday Review and the New Yorker for her on the dining room table, dog-earing the pages so she would know which stories she ought to read. In these tasks he was incredibly discriminating, always finding the articles he knew she would enjoy, the precise information she would find interesting, weeding out all the rest. He knew her so well, how she became overwhelmed by the pages, the abundance; the choice. It was too much to decide to read this over that. Without him, she it was very likely she would not read the New Yorker or Sunday Review at all.

She knew he was there. There were always traces. The rugs and floors clean, the clothes folded, or the refrigerator full. Dog eared pages.

Somehow, still, she felt alone in the apartment. Perhaps it was because he so often changed course just to suit her. And literally, so that she moved throughout their home without any obstruction whatsoever. It seemed nothing was ever in her way. He accommodated her in every way. Which was quite liberating, of course. Yet she often found herself wishing that something, someone—he—might block her way every now and again, that something in the world would stop her, so she might know where she ended and everything else began.

With nothing to bump into, the world felt amorphous, immersive; a permeable thing.

A mistake, A challenge.

Is this a challenge?

Is this a mistake?

She wondered about that.

It was difficult to tell which was which, too many things terrified her. She was too often impelled by fear, which obfuscated the meaning of things, she knew. If only desire drove her, she would know what was a challenge, what was a mistake.

Wouldn’t she?

It was a decision. That’s why she was terrified. She had a hard time with decisions.

Which made sense, given the pros and cons were all the same, whether it were a or b.  Either way: It was terrifying. It was a challenge. It was a possibly a mistake. These were the pros. These were the cons.

She could think herself into spiraling circles until she was paralyzed and dizzy. Which she often did.

In the end, she made choices based on nothing at all, really. Nothing but impulse.

An Introduction

This is Jayne – the woman who dated Thomas While-We-Were-Living-Under-the-Same-Roof.

That’s how Karen introduced her.

…

The corner outside Thomas’s apartment in Old Town. It’s spring, mid-afternoon, sunny. The trees along the street just budding. Shadows: dappled. Karen: waiting.

Jayne’d forgotten Karen would be there to pick up Corrine. It was Karen’s weekend.

Moments before: The three of them scrambling to cross the street. Thomas carrying Corrine’s backpack, stuffed and half-zipped, Corrine with soppy chocolate ice cream cone in one hand, her hand in the other. They are late. It happens in two seconds, rushing to beat the light: Corrine drops her cone, ice-cream-first, onto the pavement. Jayne dips down, scoops and places the ice cream cone back into Corrine’s expectant hand. One movement.

They make it across before the light changes. Nearly home. No honking cars or families flattened. The ice cream cone remarkably in one piece. No tears. Child content with slightly grubby treat. You learn to keep things moving when you have a 2-year old.

3-second rule? Jayne says to Corrine’s father as they land on the sidewalk, the first moment she actually realizes what she’s done. He shrugs. Too many other things to worry about.

The sidewalk: safe, then not so safe. The Ex there, on the corner. Of course, Jayne thinks, it’s what we’re late for. How could it have slipped her mind? Karen half-waves at Thomas, then waves-excitedly at Corrine. Karen’s father, Corrine’s grandfather, stands beside her, smiling.

Jayne had just given Karen’s daughter an ice cream cone she’d scooped off the street.

She anticipates a comment, but nothing’s said about the chocolate-flavored cone adorned with asphalt sprinkles. Instead, Karen introduces Jayne: Dad, this is Jayne — The Woman Who Dated Thomas While We Were Living Under the Same Roof.

It’s shocking-and-not-shocking. Surprising-and-unsurprising. Jayne’s amazed, again, how these feelings can strike at once. Karen has become remarkable to her in this way. Part of her forever waiting for it; the other part never believing it when it finally arrived. Jayne’s belief-and-disbelief.

Thomas interjects. Jed, this is Jayne. Jayne this is Jed Moretti, Corrine’s grandfather. Thomas is used to it. The un/surprise, the dis/belief.

Karen is technically correct, perfectly so. It’s the litigator in her. It is true they were Living Under The Same Roof. Thomas had moved back in when Corrine was born, took the guest room in their old Victorian in the Valley.

Things were in-between and the two lawyers hired other lawyers to fill out papers and divvy things up. The lawyers’ lawyers talked often. They had arguments and made offers and counter offers and not-so-veiled-threats. In the meantime, he would live in the guest room, marvel at his newborn daughter, and help with feedings and diapers as much as he could.

Before all that, in the beginning, there had been no wedding for his friends to attend and none of them were surprised – Of course, they all said, his friends shrugging together. Thomas, always capricious. Thomas had written to tell Jayne about Karen and the solo wedding. It was longhand on a funny letterhead he made from scratch, a picture of himself in the upper right-hand corner pointing to the intersection of Mullet & B Streets. He loved Karen’s fiery hair, he wrote, Karen’s blue eyes, her sophisticated upper-class Jersey-Italian background. Karen was whip-smart.

Jayne was impressed to learn that Karen had named her cat Guido.

Jayne had looked forward to knowing Karen someday, the wife of her friend, Thomas. But by the time they’d finally meet, she’d never really get to meet her. The next thing Jayne heard, Thomas was having a baby and getting a divorce all-at-once. His description changed slightly. Still whip-smart, now also bat-shit-crazy; spoiled rather than sophisticated. They would co-parent, he said. Though bat-shit-crazy, Karen would be a good mom.

Now, Corrine, on her hip working on her ice cream. Nice to meet you, Mr. Moretti, Jayne says, hoisting Corrine over.

Nice to meet you, he says.

She is grateful for the hand he extends.

Fuck you, Karen, Jayne sdid not say.

Were they in court, she’d take issue with the term “dating.” Objection your honor. “Date: noun. An engagement to go out socially with another person, often out of romantic interest.” And how would this be possible with an entire country, 3,000 miles of land, between them? Is it not true that my client Thomas, lived in San Francisco at the time in question? And my client Erin lived in New York City, did she not? How could they possibly be ‘dating,’ Mrs. — excuse me – Ms. Moretti?”

That, also, was technically correct.

But, Jayne’d often thought, she would be upset too, were she in Karen’s place. Things hadn’t gone to plan. They hadn’t worked out. Karen was alone, for now at least. Why wasn’t he? A woman Karen didn’t know would take care of her only child; he had decided it without her. Thomas would decide many things without her now; there was nothing she could do. Now, this woman would help choose what food to buy, which snacks to prepare, the clothes their daughter would wear.

It was unfair. All of it. Surely. Just standing there, Jayne’s presence confirmed the injustice, a silent reminder of Karen’s place, just as Karen made sure to remind her of hers.

If it had been said to Karen’s girlfriend, pointing Jayne out across a room, she’d have understood. But to Karen’s own father, while they all stood there?

Jayne watches Jed hold Corrine, wipe the dried chocolate ice cream from her cheeks. She imagines him embarrassed, disappointed by his daughter’s sense of entitlement, her recklessness. Or is he just sad and upset for Karen? How did she get here? A stressful job, a new town, a daughter to raise, no husband. How could Thomas do this to her? Did she do this to herself? It wasn’t what he envisioned. It wasn’t what the future was supposed to become.

She imagined her own father. He’d look nothing like Jed, who wears khaki pleated pants, his button down tucked-in, brown belt, and matching shoes. His hair neat. Her father would surely be in sneakers, the different colored neon laces on each shoe left untied purposefully, a conversation piece. Loose sweat-shirt and cargo shorts, some goofy hat. Hair wavy and wild.

They’d look nothing alike but she imagined her father equally as kind. Ignoring the undercurrents and the voltage. He too would look her in the eye, whoever she was. Say her name, shake her hand. Focus on the little one with ice cream. Maybe try and sneak a bite when Corrine wasn’t looking. Always trying to steal away the moment.

She imagined him worrying about the child he held in his arms.

She remembers that Karen left her book in the stroller last week, Jayne had put it in her bag, meaning to give it back. Thomas and Karen are talking, likely sorting out when and where to pickup Corrine Monday.

It is possible there is nowhere to go from here. It is possible there is nothing Jayne can do.

She fishes the book out of her bag and hands it to Mr. Moretti.

Karen’s, she says.

She was right.

This sucks, he writes.
He writes, I love you.
Please don’t feel like you can’t change your mind.
He writes, Think about staying, e.
Think about staying.
He writes: Fuck You.
Give me my fucking key back and..Get…The Fuck…Out.

She’s moving back to Brooklyn. It didn’t work out. What a mess, she thinks. She needs to find a place to live. Can’t believe she gave up her rent-controlled apartment. So glad she kept her job. Fuck. She needs to find a place. She needs to find a mover. She needs to tell her boss. She should tell him after she has things sorted. Christ, she thinks: so embarrassed. Didn’t she just make a heart-felt plea to work from Connecticut? She asked everyone to get behind her like she knew what she wanted. She just asked.

And Steve won’t let her say goodbye to Corrine.

A baby, just 6-months old, she held Corrine in her arms. Baked her first birthday cupcake, watched as she dove in with both hands, purple frosting becoming the first blush and lipstick Corrine would wear. She picked out Corrine’s second Halloween costume, painted on her whiskers, and watched Corrine become a black cat, circling her brand new tail, mesmerized by her own transformation. I have a tail, Er-in. I have a tail! She taught Corrine to say Peace Out, Er-in!, snapping fingers in a wild Z; taught her to say Obama and held her hand as they walked the neighborhood; listened as Corrine ‘counted’ the yard signs: One O-ba-ma, ‘nuther O-ba-ma….there’s a ‘nuther ‘bama, Er-in! She dressed that two-and-a-half-year-old-miniature-self in leopard skin stretch pants and hot-pink patent-leather Chucks, and caught Corrine when she jumped, without notice, from couches and stairways and beds, yelling SUUUU-PER-Cor-ry! Corrine, not at all understanding that she couldn’t actually fly.

She’d never be the one to break the news.

She’s moving to a new house. That’s what Steve’s told Corrine. And he won’t let her say goodbye. My daughter, he says. Who you’re abandoning, he says.

He’s keeping Taco-The-Cat-That-Fetches. Taco, who would trot back, string in mouth, and patiently wait, tail twitching, for her to throw the string down the wooden stairs one more time. She loves that cat. She fucking loves that cat. That cat would climb into her mouth just to get a little closer to her.

The thing was, she had already told her best friend, Jake, walking down 14th Street. It was exactly three years ago. Right on the corner of First Avenue, as they waited for the walk symbol, which was weird because when did they ever wait for the walk symbol? Never.

She told him: He’s Trouble.

Trouble, she said.

When I come back to you in two years, crying, she said, don’t feel sorry for me.

She actually said that, for Christ’s sake. She should listen to herself. And: Sooner. Right away. Jake shouldn’t listen to her, though, because now she needs him to feel sorry for her a little.

But she was right. Even in the timing. So: she’s got that.

She was right.

Small Spaces.

She’d have to leave the rug behind if she left, or sell it. She could not afford keeping it, or more correctly, a space large enough to hold it, at least not along with a couch and new bed, all three. Perhaps she could forgo a new bed, she thought, sleep on her couch. That would take up less room.

Sitting in the calm of the living room, taking in the whole of it, she pictured her future bedless life: Her, on the couch in some small lightless room. She imagined how her body would curl up to fit. The large rug lying beneath her, beneath the couch; like her own body, folded unnaturally to fit the small space.

A hypoallergenic cat would not take up much room, or cause her to sneeze. Perhaps she would have one there for company.

It was the thought of herself folded up to fit small spaces that upset her. That thought inspired her to get up from the couch and travel into the kitchen for a glass of Merlot. But she stopped short in the hall. Surely it wasn’t right to drink wine to erase things. Even things like futures, which did not actually exist.

On the other hand, she thought, it was quite possible that imagined futures were more disturbing than anything actual; more deserving of erasure.

Wednesday evenings.

They dreaded it. Both of them did.

On Wednesday evenings, at the sound of the buzzer, Mark and she walked up the narrow staircase and sat on the futon sofa that lay too low to the ground, their knees practically in their faces, and they waited. A short distance across the room, an old fan rested on a wooden chair next to a pile of old Psychology Today magazines. On the small table to their right sat the only children’s toy in the waiting room, a curves-and-waves rollercoaster, its red and blue and yellow wooden beads hanging from curving wires at various low points.

Fitting for this office, she had thought more than once, staring at the static, but colorful beads, how many analogies and metaphors might reside in a toy like that?

At exactly six-o-clock the counselor invited them into her office. There, they took seats on opposite sides of an old brown sofa full of pillows, and faced the counselor. A bookshelf crammed with psychoanalytic texts sat in the far corner of the room and whenever she didn’t know where to place her gaze, which was often, she found herself staring at their spines.

They spoke about each other in second and third person interchangeably for an hour. Sometimes they would say you did/said x or y and sometimes they would look at the counselor and say s/he did/said x or y. Sometimes they would use each other’s names. She tried to work out whether or not there was a pattern to their use of second and third person, but she couldn’t keep track of how and when they used each. It seemed there was a lot to keep track of, even though there were only three people sitting in a rather sparse room and just one person speaking at any given time.

She noticed how far apart they sat from each other and how Mark folded his arms and crossed his legs and leaned back and also how he would take twice as long as she did to make his points. His points were not any more or less complicated than hers and she often predicted them long before he finished.

It was true that counseling was the hardest thing to do, especially with someone else. It required special care for her to keep her mind open during these types of conversations, ones that often focused on how wrongheaded she’d been at this moment or that, whether the moment under scrutiny was three years ago one Saturday morning she couldn’t even remember but was clearly important to Mark, for instance, or Friday of last week.

She listened to the others speak about her in second and third person, desperately fighting to control the counter-attacks rising within her, the series of Yes-Buts, the examples in which he had been Just Like Her—But he did the same thing!—Or the times in which he was responsible for her more unbecoming choices—If only he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have. Etcetera.

She did find it astonishing that Mark remembered so many moments, so many dates and times, in so much detail, and for so long. She envied his capacity to remember. And so specifically.

Once, upon a random request from their friends, he had counted from memory exactly how many Shakespearean scenes featured monkeys and described each in detail. Her friends left in awe. She didn’t much care for Shakespeare, but she, too, respected his cosmic knowledge of it. 

On Wednesdays his capacity for recall had its rather obvious disadvantages. The crisp memory of some Saturday morning three years ago when she had, standing in the kitchen, with a mouthful of cereal, asked if he ever considered going to a shrink, implying not so subtly a certain failure and incompetence on his part — it was not the thing she wanted remembered. Clearly, she supposed, since she herself had forgotten it.

The truth was: It wasn’t that he remembered. Or even that she looked so ugly. What upset her the most was that Mark slept next to her for so long, for so many years, without telling her. It was that she always learned about him so late.

And so, on Wednesdays, she often wondered who exactly was sitting next to her. It sometimes felt as though she didn’t know him at all. Sometimes when she wished he had told her this or that already, it was because she respected him more knowing it, however good or bad it made her feel. But sometimes when she learned x or y, she wondered how she could have ever loved him at all. Sometimes she hated him. Or herself. Sometimes, sitting on that old sofa facing the counselor, she felt it would never work. She thought all of it was pointless. Neither of them would ever change, would they? Did anyone? 

Somehow, regardless, at the end of the session, when they walked down the stairs outside onto the sidewalk, they hugged each other.

She always felt closer to him for having gone through it, for having gotten through the hour.

Sean Penn.

It was because of Sean Penn. It was because of a lot of things and then it was because of Sean Penn. Because Sean Penn looked so different in Milk and she couldn’t believe it and so she looked up photographs and compared different Sean Penns. That’s why. The difference between his massiveness in Mystic River and his frailness in Milk. How he took up so much space and then took up so little. She thought: That. Is. Amazing.

She was laughing and looking at Sean Penns on her computer. Hey, she said, Check. This. Out! Sean Penn looks SOoo different.

And Thomas turns to her, and—just like this—he says: Jesus Christ, Erin. I’m SICK of hearing about fucking Sean Penn!

I don’t fu-cking CARE. That’s what he said. Just like that. And stormed out of the room.

Corrine was at her grandmother’s and they just got home from seeing Milk, so she swears she couldn’t have been talking about Sean Penn for long, maybe a half hour—a half hour off-and-on—max. It wasn’t days or anything. She doesn’t even have that kind of attention span.

He hated her, she thought. Or at least he hated when she was happy or excited. That’s what she realized, staring at Sean Penns after he left the room: she realized something about her excitement made him miserable.

It struck her: Maybe someone else would be excited with her. Or happy for her. Some other person might like her.

That’s what she thought, staring at Sean Penns after he left the room.

Strip Poker with a Married Genius???

A guy I’m not going to date, screen name TheLoverPlus1, tagline Strip Poker with a Married Genius??? wrote a Why You Should Get To Know Me section so long, with such cracked out punctuation, that despite his friendly email and the provocative screen name/headline, I put off reading it for a week. I had to build up the energy.

It was as if this guy somehow transformed his frenetic self into a profile. As though he became the page. Just browsing it, you know it’d feel exactly the same talking to him. You’re exhausted already.

So…have fun:

First half (and I swear this is what/how he writes): he’s married and not leaving her. Not leaving her….They’re both totally cool with this, etc …. He’s happy. She’s happy…He has so many friends and love and honesty and support, etc….. Don’t expect him to leave her….if you love someone set them free…everyone is so different and unique… Yay everyone! …. Explaining how funny he finds the cropped nearly nude photos of himself, it’s crazy ….ha ha ha … funny!… can’t believe he’s put these images online to seduce the reader!!! …also let’s face it, isn’t that the point here??…seduction?? his headshot photo is professionally-taken….FYI… very successful, lucrative career… thriving, really. Very high I.Q. …. list of achievements …list….list… and so young! Can’t believe it himself.….he’s handsome, he is, see photos….he’s sexy… more sexy than the photos suggest, you’ll see…I.Q. did he mention? … it’s no joke, it’s high, he’s clever …. multifaceted interests… really talented… he has interests…more interests…also, a lot of his interests — he’s really good at them… clever, took all AP and honors classes….AP! ..smart. …

Then: his desire to have strip games (have strip games?)…his desire to have strip games put another way…his desire to have strip games put differently…his desire to have strip games repeated… interest in strip games explained… desire to have strip games justified… joke about strip games…ha ha ha!!!!…hilarious…just hilarious… request for proposals for new/other kinds of strip games… he hasn’t thought of everything!!!…you could have some good ideas too!!…. he’s open!!…in closing — his desire to have strip games.

What he’s most passionate about: Sex.uality.

He emailed me inquiring about my interest in strip games. My What I’m Looking For specifically states Single Men, but it would be out of character for him to read it, let alone take heed. Anyway, it’s possible he has the most accurate personality-to-profile conversion in existence. I feel like I know him already.

Me, alone, the stench of Pine-Sol, a mop, the idea of a dead cat.

I got home late, exhausted from a three-day business trip. I’d been looking forward to Thai take-out and watching whatever Netflix DVD was waiting for me, but instead, I spent the hours Pine-Soling everything in the house.

Luke the Cool Cat was dead.

He must have died a day or two before. I don’t know what of; I just know he was already old when I got him, one-eyed, torn up ears, half a tail. He was worn. Vanessa found him in Chinatown one night in the snow, or that was the story she told me the year before, the story that led me to the 6-train and up to the Bronx, into the shelter where she left him.

It’s just like Vanessa to spot a cat-in-need and take immediate action despite time and place and the length of her day. Just like her to believe she should be the one to find remedy; to research shelters late-night on some sketchy January street corner, frostbitten cat in hand. It was just like her to decide the best shelter in the city was the one furthest away from everything and everyone, including her and her mangy cat; and it just like her to immediately trek all the way up there.

Everyone Wants Kittens. That’s what she says. No one will adopt this sweet cat. Me, peering into this cat’s stale bin, the smell of urine overpowering, the disinfectant-gone-airborne stinging my eyes. Me, shaking my head.

He’s Got Character. She says.

Me, back on the 6-train, carrying a cat in a box, thinking about cat names.

I’d ended up naming him Luke. Luke, after Cool Hand Luke. Because this cat looked like he’d seen a few things in his time. Been in a few brawls, maybe eaten a boatload of eggs on a dare. Who knew. He seemed the type to find his own way. This time, right into my apartment.

Cool cat. Except for dying. Flies everywhere. Reminded me of, what was it?  – spontaneous generation – how a steak decays and maggots miraculously appear? The windows cracked open, but screened. I kept wondering where the flies came from.

It was dark and late and I was out of garbage bags. I took my very dead, very blown-up-rigor-mortising orange tabby, wrapped him in a towel, placed him in a cardboard box, and carried him down the building’s narrow stairs, placing the box outside the front door before running to the corner Bodega.

I returned a few minutes later with a box of twelve thick, large black garbage bags and a pack of cigarettes despite having quit months before. Here, on the porch, during an extended moment of confusion and disbelief. I realize the cat and box are gone. I realize: Not only did I let my cat die—I lost my dead cat.

I lost my dead cat.

Me, alone, the stench of Pine-Sol, a mop, the idea of a dead cat. The fact that I lost it.

And there’s this: I won’t die alone with my cat in a New York apartment like I’d always feared. Now, that’s something to work towards.

If I were a few years younger, I’d move back home to California. But I’m old enough to know I’d be bringing myself along.