No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
We talked about work without pay and pay without work. I mentioned an article that said that E. M. Forster had been granted a an honorary fellow position at King’s College, Cambridge, for twenty years without publishing another novel, but you pointed out that that still depended on a certain amount of pedigree and prestige prior to that point and I said it was true.
“I guess,” Caitlin said, giving me a funny look. “They also have celebrity home tours, and you get to see where the Kardashians live and stuff.”
“Oh God, I hate–” I started to say, then realized that she had meant it genuinely. “Are you ready to go to dinner?” I asked instead, hoping that the change in venue would help make up for our lack of shared interests.
How do you say no to seventy thousand for a five-minute video?
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
The accident took place on I-84 near where the entrance to the Taconic snakes around the perimeter of a rolling cattle farm. Though I didn’t see it happen, the back door of the tipped-over trailer must have flung open upon impact. I arrived just as the goats, startled but unharmed, righted themselves and walked through it.
That night, you slept over on the couch of my tiny bachelor apartment and in the morning, we stood on the balcony watching the sun rise. I asked you, why haven’t you stuck with anyone yet?