Another Day Not Gone Wrong (So Far)
<<2003-07-17 - 10:38 a.m.>>

I dreamed I got an email from Deep Springs, vaguely cryptic, carrying the seeds of premonition. It said that I should call Whoever at Whatever Number to check on Max's health. I called and was told rather bluntly that Max was dead. I believe the explanation may have had something to do with a swimming accident (much the way Tim's good friend died this summer, so that may be the association), but that would make less than lots of sense in light of the fact that Deep Springs is in the desert in California.

I cried, of course. A lot, even. And I called Max's mother in tears, ostensibly to console her—but it felt like there was more to it. I wanted her to comfort me. Or I wanted to commiserate. Or I wanted her to know how much I cared about Max. Or something. She was strangely dispassionate. She seemed startled that I was so upset.

I feel like Max might appreciate a letter beginning with this anecdote. Perhaps I should leave out the part about his mother's apathy, however. That doesn't seem quite the way to begin.

In other news, I'm going to have lunch with Ruthie today. And maybe Will as well. But first I must clean up the house and call the job-woman. And then I will come home and let my cousins in. And then I will go to the gym. And then I will have Indian food on Sixth Street with Chloë and Nikki. And hopefully I will then come home and bask in the afterglow of another day not gone wrong.

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