Wednesday, February 15, 2012


I was in love standing drunk in the wet grass outside his bedroom window at 2 am listening to my knuckles on the glass, but he wasn't.


In a surprise Long Island snow that fell wet and heavy across my shoes, I ran to the car and slammed the door. Barely 32 degrees in a salt-laden landscape, and I was eager to drive the empty streets with thick flakes flying at me as I tuned the AM dial to talk radio, scratchy old recordings, or callers asking the host about love while I drove a dark road past an undulating bay, remembering him. Should I call in next time and tell listeners that I drank too much, and often, and looked forward to nothing but night, when the day's pressures left me? Should I confess that I dreamed of nothing. Should I wish that they possessed the warm plump faces of people who do not frown upon morons?


I went home and sat alone with the hum of an old refrigerator, watching snow pile on the sill. A friend asked me about panic, and I think that's the day it started.

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