Not That Different
<<2005-01-08 - 5:45 p.m.>>

After an afternoon at the new MoMA, Ken and I headed to the subway station to go uptown to meet Chloë and Nikki for dinner (they like him and he likes them, despite a certain failure to understand our stubborn nonsingularity—but boys don't really do that, do they?) and passed Charlene's brother's building. The building at whose feet she died. He pointed it out to me, and I felt briefly like I was in a place I had stolen from Charlene—walking past the place where she died holding her boyfriend's hand, taking him to his first dinner with my friends, taking him home afterward. It passed.

Who are these girls we are? I lie lazily in bed, half-asleep, and Ken hops back in briefly after his shower to kiss me goodbye before going to work. Uptown a couple of hours later, Nikki and I help Chloë pack, mostly by keeping her calm so she can actually get things done, and talk about our own private sexual revolution, which is manifest mostly in the fact that we were all plus-one at Freestyle last night. After the show, we were each tucked under someone's arm, each departing with our hands held to beds we don't have to sleep in alone. And then getting together minus the plus-ones to giggle and drink tea the next morning. Oh yes, it's all very different.

<< - >>