Summer’s dragging its feet. It feels like almost yesterday we were at F—’s apartment eating frosting off of spoons. I was reading Heart of Darkness on the orange line. That was the same day someone jumped. Again. And you were on the train when the conductor came on the intercom. You’re always so nonchalant about things that clearly rattle you.
I almost missed my meeting at the waterfront because of the delay. And these were the things we worried about, the things we thought about, fought about our feelings on. Public transit. I would give anything to take the bus again.
If we were in a pandemic coming-of-age movie there would have to be a lot of time skips. I remember the last time I saw you both before the pandemic (March) better than any of the times since.
And now I feel stagnant. Like, maybe it’s the pandemic or maybe I need to let myself out of the door of my own feelings. And maybe that is how I feel, like something trapped, pinned between the pages of the day.
Also, if we were in a pandemic coming-of-age movie someone would be yelling to progress the plot instead of memorizing new bike routes and spending one saturated afternoon in the arboretum.
Instead, America is having growing pains again, and I’m waist deep in conspiracy theories as I try to imagine a way the internet can be a better place.
All my thoughts are reruns. At least the show was good while it lasted. You playing the guitar at the cusp of the end of life as we knew it. Taking the bus with F— through the city hot as glass. The summer before I thought my life would be like that again.
But, I didn’t know you all that well before driving you home after back to back performances of the play I directed. The winter-safe we created. I cried for the first time in months saying goodbye to the Black Box, but you know that.
I know it’ll be safe again to live the life I want to be living now. But I can’t help but feel I’m missing an important transitional period of my life. Hence, coming-of-age movie. Like I’m missing an important osmosis, sitting out my own transformation.
I want our lives to be more connected than a game of telephone. I don’t know how much I should tell you.
Maybe just that me being worried doesn’t make anything wrong or bad or important at all, it just makes me worried. And that you make me laugh, and your hair is the color of pink lemonade, which is the entire point of all of this anyway. Maybe that’s all that needs to be said.