Wine runs thick in my blood.
It is a year to the day that I left England. Where did the time go? It slithers through my fingers. I can't hold on to it.
I read about the high rise fire. Did any of my friends live there? I don't think so.
I grieve for the people who didn't get out.
I shop for a condo. I try not to think about fires. Or earthquakes.
You are hard to seduce.
I know it.
My desk is crowded, a nest of debris, little cups holding saved components of old projects.
My car gets a terrible rattle. It costs me $1700.
I second guess my upcoming road trip.
I'm second guessing my road trip, I write my best friend, who is/was on the itinerary. My car just cost me $1700.
No? I write back. It's phrased funny, but I can almost hear her thick panic, her grasping at talking to any other adult, her need, through the single word.
I guess I'll do it, if she needs me. I reorganize my money in my head. I make quick lists of propmasters to contact before my gig is up.
I'll go see her. I will.
The couple go to Montreal. They send me photos of their wine glasses, the candle light, a pair of Japanese newlyweds.
I grieve for the kind of relationship I don't have, even while I relish their attention.
I can't wait for this job to be over.