So, she sat across from me, you know, across the table in the middle of this like coffee
shop, right?
And there were all these people going by.
Like, I'd look out the window and there were all these people just going by, on their way
to other places, other worlds.
I'm sure they had their other shit too, but if I can be egotistical for a second, I bet
our conversation was the most important thing happening in that place.
Well, I guess the most dramatic.
And, you know, she said this and that, but honestly, I don't remember most of it.
I just remember how it twisted my gut.
I remember thinking how much of a joke it was that we were just sitting there acting
this out all polite and shit because it wouldn't be right, you know, it wouldn't be kosher
or whatever to be actually human in front of people we don't know.
She said, let's just be friends.
I do remember that and I was screaming in my head.
I was screaming, do something, save this, do something, you fucking idiot, do something
for once.
But of course, I just said, okay, you know, okay, like it's what I had been thinking all
along and I was just so fucking relieved.
She said at first, I was so glad we could be just friends.
So we sat there and she finished her coffee and she walked out.
That was the last time I saw her.
I'm fine.
I'm holding up okay.
It's not like I'm not functioning.
I go to work.
I'm fine there.
I'm out with you or the guys.
I'm fine, right?
It's just, I feel like I shouldn't be this fine, you know, like the fact that I'm this
okay with it means I'm not actually okay with it, right?
What do they call that, denial or something?
And she's gone, okay?
I know that.
She's gone and she's not coming back.
Those are the facts.
Those are the variables.
I can't do anything about that.
I don't want to do anything about that.
But I guess that's what scares me.
You know, I feel like I should be doing something.
I've tried writing a letter to her, you know, not that I can actually do anything with it,
but just to clear my head, you know, I've done this like four times and I always get
to the same spot, Isabel.
I miss you.
Do you miss me at all?
That's it.
I can't go any further.
My hands just don't have anything to say past that.
I keep having this dream.
It's always the same.
I'm sleeping on the couch.
I fall into sleep after watching some foreign film on TV and then the doorbell rings.
She's there at the door, drenched, looks like she just crawled out of a puddle and she says
it's good to see you again, just like that.
And she asks to come in, so I let her in, she's drunk, she's holding her heels, you
know, in her hand and she's just getting water all over the floor.
She goes to the couch and she sits, I close the door and I lock it.
I remember that distinctly, I lock the door and even in the dream I think, you know, like
to my dream self, why are you locking the door and I do it anyway.
You know, they say that everything in dreams is like this subconscious thing, right?
And everything means something.
I don't know, I lock the door and it's like locking her in my memory or something, like
if I can keep her in, if I can lock the door, then I won't forget her, right?
I don't know.
So I go into the kitchen, you know, to get her a glass of water and she's on the couch.
I can see her from the kitchen and she's like fixing her dress and her hair and she's
starting to, you know, like calm down and I pour some water, get a bottle of aspirin
and right before I go back to the other room, I just look at the clock.
It's 3.33, I don't know what that's supposed to mean either.
We sit and I look at her and I ask her why she's here and she says her new friends are
boring.
I light her up a cigarette and she says she misses me, so I tell her she looks beautiful.
She smiles and then she says she loves me.
She always did that, said she loved me when she was drunk and then she just jumps up and
she says, tell me a story, please, come on, come on, sing me a song.
Why can't we be friends?
And she says that sort of sad, you know, like she's really wondering, why can't we be friends?
And then she just looks at me like her demeanor changes completely.
She looks at me like she wants to make love right there and she just looks towards the
bedroom and then she looks back at me.
She's a genius, I swear to God.
And she starts towards the bedroom and I watch her and she goes, but I sit a second and then
I start to get up and that's it.
I mean, I can try to figure out what it means, I guess, but honestly, I just think it means
I miss her, you know, I guess it's my form of grieving, reoccurring dreams, it's the
first one I ever had, I think it's kind of poetic though, because when I wake up, it's
like my memory is all stirred, it's like someone went in there with a spoon and just like stirred
it up and I can't stop thinking about her, you know, for hours all I could do was think
about her.
I mean, it goes away eventually, but it comes back when I go to bed.
The funeral was two weeks ago yesterday, you know?
That's not that long ago, of course I'm going to be thinking of her and of course I'm going
to be counting the days on the calendar until I get to flip the month and I don't have to
look at the date of the waking shit all marked, but I don't know.
When I wake up from this dream, it's like, I don't know where I'm going to be, but when
I'm there, I know exactly where I am, I know who I am, and even if I can't articulate,
it's like, I could feel it.
It's nice to have something to dream to, I guess.
But who knows what we'll be when we wake from our dreams, when we wake from our dreams,
when we wake from our dreams, when we wake up from our dreams, when we wake from our dreams,
when we wake up from our dreams, when we wake from our dreams, when we wake from our dreams,
