It’s musty and dark today, the kind of day that screams for a fireplace. I went out earlier to buy bagels and cigarettes and when I returned I noticed that the ivy leaves that blanket the front of my building, which I’m almost certain were there just yesterday, have all fallen at once. Without them, my building looks like a government housing project, in large part because the landlord had a blind man paint every square inch of its surface a dark, flat shade of brown. Brown. If welfare had two internationally recognized colours, they would be beige and brown. My landlord should be shot.
I am worried about my friend Ellen, who I hoped would meet me for coffee today but didn’t answer when I called. Ellen has been in the throes of a dying relationship since I met her several months ago, one that wounds both parties every time they draw close but which neither party has yet found the courage to end. So the relationship continues and wound stacks upon wound and they draw closer still, increasingly desperate for a comfort they cannot give each other. Does it always become cancer in the end?
Now, things have become suddenly more complicated and she is there and not-there and I’m not sure what to do other than to leave gentle and respectfully-spaced invitations to coffee on her answering machine. And to let her know it’s a standing offer.