2/17/2002

the clouds today were melted down and spread across the sky, a thin layer of butter on toast.  you know the ones; you can look through them directly at the sun.  i spent a lot of time today driving with the windows down and the sunroof open, listening to ben folds and the cd jonathan made me for christmas.  everything seems so large when i’m driving; even at red lights and in traffic i can feel the   s p a c e   around and above me, so enormous i want to cry until i hit a bump in the road and the cd player skips.  just before it skipped today i remembered you blowing bubbles across my line of sight as i drove.  the rainbow sheen of trees.  the road visible through a thin film of soap.  bubbles popped on my hands and arms, and we grinned like idiots.

sometimes i can’t do anything but drive.

a note to the seven-top that walked their check today:  when you don’t pay your bill, it’s not the restaurant that has to cover it, it’s the waitress.  your ninety dollars’ worth of salads and entrees and too many bloody marys nearly always comes out of her tips.