I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Tonight could have been that night. I didn’t love him yet, but mentally prepared for it. We sat in a vinyl booth watching the windows cloud with cold. He brought a notebook of poetry, and I didn’t think that was trite. This was before I convinced him not to smoke, back in the days when one could enjoy a coffee and cigarette in a diner.
Walking the trash-strewn streets of Harlem this morning, I ran into Renee. She was the first person at my school with whom I really clicked. We roomed together at the Mohonk staff retreat and spent the few days realizing how much we had in common. In the hotel, we blared Fiona Apple and went to an a cappella performance. We sat on a porch overlooking the lake and talked about our hang-ups and contradictions. Renee was as interested in milking the trip for all it was worth as I was, and was up for canoeing, taking a guided nature walk, and going horseback riding.
Tomorrow is my birthday, but a few people have wished me a happy one today, a few days ago, last week. It makes me feel like maybe I’m the one with the date wrong, but I checked the official paperwork, and tomorrow is the day.
Last Saturday, I had a dream about someone I hadn’t seen in many months, almost a year. The content of the dream blurred in my waking hours, and I couldn’t tell you what I remember. I know this person was there, and that I was talking to this person. I didn’t seem to carry the opinion of this person that I do presently, so perhaps the dream reflected the past. Deep past - me a long time ago. (But really not sooo long ago, you know? Everything’s relative).
2:33 a.m.
How do you go from the kind of sleep that forgets your existence to complete wakefulness? This morning, I startled from sleep. The apartment was enveloped in the thick darkness that is between 2:00-6:45 on a weekday. On a weekend, this darkness might be full of laughter, last calls, whispers, and even light. The day before work, it is unfamiliar and uncomfortable as a distant relative.
Today the Brooklyn Bridge is rain-slickened and cold, the pedestrian and bike area abandoned. When I went yesterday, it was sunny and crowded. Tourists walked so slowly that Cade and I kept stepping into the bike lane to quickly bypass the families loaded down with cameras and knapsacks. One surly cyclist asked, “You do know you’re in the bike lane, right?” as he whizzed off. “You do know I could easily push you over, right?” I retorted to Cade. Someday I want to be a cyclist over the bridge, but I’ll go easy on those traveling afoot. Foot traffic is slow and frequently interrupted across the wooden-planked bridge. Sometimes walkers have to stray in the bike lane.
We learned of the final project on the first day of Lit and Culture of the 1960’s. Like all senior seminars, the culmination of the semester was a 12-point font, annotated behemoth and a class presentation - the kind of project that sounded like a deathbed so far in the future in September, like the click of a gun barrel against your head in November.
To You:
I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to pat you on the back and holler, “Just walk away, man! Walk away!” Another part of me worries about the mess you will be leaving for others to clean up. I do want you to know that if you’re happy, I’m happy for you. You have always been kind and helpful, and you deserve to be in a place where people appreciate that.
