I was self-conscious and self-centered and hated waiting for the flyaway because there was a cute blonde guy waiting on the bench over, for what I don't know because he stood up and left after 20 minutes of solitary and awkward silence. This is LA.
And at the apartment, I hovered around, uncertain of what I can say or do to express that I was young and fun but we in the room were all just fugitives pretending to have normal lives and hoping never to get caught. But then, it happens sooner or later, we will have to show that not only are we old and bored, we're broken - by each other, by God, by ourselves.
Oh, but it would be a mistake to be sad. I told one, "Don't be sad." She said, "I'm not sad. I just wish -"
"No, that's being sad. Don't be sad."
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It's when we're matched and alone two by two in a living room or in a car that the tears fall smooth like butter and it feels so good to finally share that we forget the harrowing past. We make new friends and try to make room in our lives for our new selves who, for some startling reason, feel also like our own children needing to be nurtured and comforted in order to grow. We are our own children.
Have you noticed how wonderful it feels to have fresh matches? With the sweet odor of phosphorus assuring you that whenever you wish it struck, it will ignite? I can't be afraid when I have matches left because there's still a lot I can do. I can burn down this house and I can also burn the old fragrance away.
