July 31, 2008

I am in New York and you are in California. We are boxed in our respective time zones, you in the Pacific and me in the Eastern. It’s 1:16 a.m. in New York. This makes it 10:16 p.m. where you are. What do you do at 10:16 p.m. in California on Saturday night? If I called you, which I would never do, I’m sure I would find you happily drunk, maybe with B.J., the guy you told me about last week who has a hairy chest like me, or with Annie, the girl you met at work who drives a Mercedes and gets in free at the club where you saw a fourteen-year-old doing coke in the bathroom. I hope you’re not with Annie, but I really hope you’re not with B.J. Annie’s a bad influence, but she’s not a threat to me. B.J. is who I’m worried about. Something in your voice told me I should be worried when you called to tell me about him. You called me. I never call you. I can’t take the chance of becoming dependent on you to be happy because my life is here.

This B.J. sounds too much like me. You said he likes basketball and tennis and parks and lying next to you in bed. You also said he laughs a lot, which does not sound like me, but everything else you told me does, like he wants to own an important company someday, but for now he just wants to travel and meet new people.

It was hard for me yesterday to hear you say you got shivers when B.J. held your hand on the third day you’d known him. Don’t you remember that I was the only one beside you when you left New York, when you told me not to worry, I would see you soon on my television screen because you were going to Hollywood and you had a face they couldn’t refuse? This B.J., what has he done? Told you you were beautiful? I’ve told you much more than that. I told you that I understood you and I meant it.

I am in New York and you are in California, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.


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