Every Bistro Needs a Cat

Having finished shaking down all the patrons at the sidewalk tables, the gray cat walks back into the bistro and, after a moment's consideration, jumps up on the banquette just out of Katie's reach and begins to wash himself. I make a tsk-ing noise to attract his attention, but he ignores me completely and, if anything, washes with even more concentration.

"Why you using his government name?" Katie says. "You know how many people must waste his time every day by trying to get his attention without giving him food?"
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One year ago: Just Like My Father
Two years ago: What a Fool Beliebs
Three years ago: The Virtues of Illness
Four years ago: What Am I, A Child?
Seven years ago: The Prisoner

The Cold Shower Method

I take a couple deep breaths and step into the shower. The water is bitterly cold, but I've felt kind of weird all day - a little achy, a little emotional - so instead of feeling painful, it drives out all the other feelings and leaves me hollowed out and empty.

I hang with it for as long as I can, until my skin is chilled and my joints ache, and then I spin the faucet over to warm. The pipes begin to squeal as hot water goes through them, and all this tension I was carrying around without knowing it melts away, washed down the drain with the soapy water as I start to lather up.

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One year ago: One Last Time

Two years ago: A Momentary Truce

Three years ago: Seen That Trick Before

Ten years ago: The Sweetest Bitters

A Compromise (Of Sorts)

When I arrive back in the waiting room after the nurse has taken my vitals (blood pressure decent, weight unfairly high since my shoes and clothes add at least a good five pounds), I see the cup of water, seemingly untouched, where I left it on the table before I went into the office.

Sitting on the other side of the table, an Asian woman gives me a polite smile as I sit down in my former seat.

Now I'm faced with a decision: I'm thirsty, and the cup of water is still here, full and ready for me to drink, but this woman doesn't know it was mine, and what will she think at this random man picking up a seemingly random glass of water and draining it.

After a minute or two's hesitation, I grab the cup and walk it over to the sink where I dump it out and refill it, which seems like a good compromise, for some reason.
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One year ago: Tourist
Two years ago: Dread Imaginings
Four years ago: And We Probably Won't Do Much On Saturday Two
Ten years ago: That Which Does Not Kill Me Or My City

Our Younger Selves

I finish up my daily yoga session lying on the floor, breathing deeply, thinking about a young friend of ours who's going through some stuff right now, and it gets me wondering what I was like when I was his age.

But I have a record of those days, in the form of literally dozens of notebooks that I kept with near daily entries on what was going on, and how I felt about it, so I can actually find out exactly what I was like.

I rummage through the shelf of Moleskines of various sizes, accounting books, hardbound artist's ledgers and spiral bound notebooks with pages falling out, until I find a small black leatherbound notebook with the words "Corporate Whore" pasted to the cover.

I flip through the pages with, at first, fascination, then growing horror, until I slowly close the book, retie the strap that keeps it shut, and place it back in its place on the shelf, before going back and moving it to the back of the shelf, behind some other books.

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One year ago: Bizarre Nostalgia

Two years ago: Hot and Cold

Three years ago: Thanks

Four years ago: Back and Forth

Ten years ago: Who's Laughing Now?

Nightmares

The stacks of clothes, while somewhat neatly folded and sorted on the bed (sweaters, shirts, pants, t-shirts), are really only a transfer of textiles from where they were piled on the floor to a few feet higher. And trying to figure out which ones to keep and which ones to donate to charity is seriously stressing me out.

Katie's doing her best to help while staying out of my way, but when I finally just give up and start putting things in drawers, only to find that I don't have the room, I get a little despairing.

"Okay, if you need me to help you with your drawers, that I can do, because those things are a nightmare," she says.

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One year ago: Who Carries a Hand Mirror?

Two years ago: Deep-seated Guilt

Four years ago: Irish Farewell

Ten years ago: No Rest For The Wicked

Sleeping Late

I wake up with a dry mouth and sand in my joints, but comfortable curled up under the comforter in our hotel room. We couldn't figure out the thermostat (or at least I couldn't) and the room just stayed kinda cold all night, but the alcohol and the insane amount of food we ate last night ensured that I was in no position to get out of bed to do anything, so I just burrowed into the warmest bed ever.

I turn over and throw an arm across Katie, bury my face in her shoulder, and, still moving carefully to make sure that my entire body except for my head stays under the covers, wrap my arms and legs around her sleeping form.

"You are so snuggly," she says groggily, and then we fall back asleep.

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One year ago: Quiet Please

Two years ago: Things Between Us

Three years ago: Hashtag Yes All Wineglasses

Four years ago: She'll Be Glad To Know

Ten years ago: The Sutra of Lowered Expectations

Unicorn Train

“You still trying to get to 23rd Street?” the conductor says to the rest of the subway car, but she’s only talking to us.

She spots us at the other end of the car and says, “You’re gonna have to get off at 14th Street and take the 6 up.”

I give her the thumbs up, she smiles and goes back into the cabin of the train, and Katie and I turn to look at each other in shocked disbelief.

“What kind of unicorn train is this?” Katie says.