06-09-02 - 5:25 p.m.
i have pms. i also have a case of the mean reds, as holly golightly would say, and not even james spader's naked ass or a trip past tiffany's window will help. when patrick called from the empty house he someday hopes to move into, he sounded vacant and hollow, because he had spent the entire day laying vinyl in the kitchen and bathroom. he was trying to muster enthusiasm for a father's day-three-grandkid-birthday party at his barn in the eucalyptus grove. i'm not sure why, but i had a sudden, irrational urge to push him into a corner. i wanted to give him an ultimatum. take a fucking leap of faith, i wanted to say. come over. call g from my bathtub and tell her 49 years of habit is enough.
i didn't, of course. i told him i was melancholy, because trying to hide it is pointless. he knows me as only a soulmate can. then i drank a beer and listened to melancholy songs about risks taken and promises broken; i'm almost convinced that someday, somewhere, someone will walk into my life and actually say;
this is the last worthless evening you'll have to spend.