Thirtysomething

I miss her.

Dusk consists of fireflies and reedy ponds and lazy grass freckled with dandelions and forget-me-nots and ladybugs.  The jazz hour is when men in suits unbutton their shirts and throw off their ties...

Part of me, the ex-banker, understands the stuff above.  The other part, the one who left that behind, calls bullshit.

I was to be everything that was not given to him, to be his dreams realized, to rectify what history and circumstances had swept away.  I was the haves to his coulds, the whats to his ifs.

It's getting slightly easier. We distract ourselves with the practical: Her: Finding a sublet, new bosses and friends and antagonists at work, discoveries of sandwich shops and malls and neighborhoods. Me: Projects at work, errands, what I'm doing when puttering around the apartment.

Tonight the fog came as it always does, to the south, through the valleys between Twin Peaks and Potrero Hill.  Planes descended and ascended from SFO like Lite Brite and I wondered how long I can keep from counting down the days. I emptied the dishwasher.  Normally she wipes the