Dinner With An Old Shoe–

She meets me for dinner–
and asks if my blog is entirely true–
I’ve known her a while now–
Over a year–
And in the way I like to know people–
you know–
really.

We’re not weekend friends.

I see her rarely but we met under the most prosaic of circumstances–

We worked together–
She’d just buried her dad
and I’d just spent a year having chemo.

Our stories were similar, though they began and continued at a different apex–
Clearly.

She loves me, I can tell.

And I love her.

We laugh as we imagine what that might mean to those
on
the
other
side–

How little
what
THEY
think
really matters–

She reminds me that my art is good–
important
alive
with
said
pulse–

She asks me about paints and canvases– reminds me of guitar lessons–
She reminds me also that it ain’t all that bad
being separate
distant

making s p a c e–

She’s so dear to me.

And it’s funny.

This living shit.

She tells me she doesn’t get’ it.

How hard it is.
For me.
Now.

You know,
I’m not 21 anymore.

And I can smell loads–

It’s important for me to hear her.

To not intercept.

To let her finish.

More so because what she’s saying is complimentary
and
something
about my history
has somehow
lead me to believe
that all that kind of positive, good stuff ain’t entirely directed towards me.
I’ve not come to expect it.
I’m shy about compliments.
I try not to be.
But I am. I really am.

I drink more than her.
She’s driving.
And yep. I’m drinking again.

Return to sender, kinda stuff.

You know.

Surely you mean that for someone else.
That compliment.
That sentiment.
That nice thing–

But she doesn’t mean it for anyone else.

It’s meant for me.

We giggle as we drink–

Because if there’s nothing else we’ve learned since school–

Since really becoming fully fledged women–
Is.
It’s.
How fucking hard women are on other women–

She greets me at my front door and holds me almost like we’re lovers.
Almost like we’re conditioned to consider this sort of thing– rather than, you know, just feel it, enjoy, know it, relish in the oxytocin.

She’s dear to me.

I may have mentioned.

x.

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Comments
One Response to “Dinner With An Old Shoe–”
  1. Roland Lange says:

    I really enjoyed that…

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