2/15/2007

I'm time-passing in the Loop, as volunteer work has brought me the city each morning; I don't want to toss my drive down the drain. I thumb thick linen-colored chapters of a friend I hope tastes just as good on the inside as the cover art lets me assume. I've been told over and over I should not judge this way, by cover, but since the day my sticky baby fingers groped, evolved to caress slices of imagined worlds sandwiched in binding- I've never attempted to hide my biased optimism for the quirkies and pretties, mysterious, strange-fonted, graceful or plain cover designs. There's no formula in my preference for which two-dimensional desserts fronting random titles see themselves fit to fish-hook my eyes. I am skimming lightly, fingertip-dragging across spines, and looking up in time to catch familiar eyes. It's been a while. We land next door for coffee. Like old times, and it feels the same inside our place. But not inside our hearts; at least not mine. I'm long finished with him there. He's buzzing like a chatterbox, catching up, answering my inquiries. I'm fielding his prying, fulfilling his curiosity but keeping secrets.Because I'm bitter? Maybe, maybe not. I wonder if he's noticed the weight. I've noticed his.He doesn't look so good these days.And I am smiling.