He is never my lover, but we are in love. Friend love, I think. First, he is a large coffee with cream and sugar. He brings his very old laptop to the café and grades papers and lets me read the really bad ones. Then he is my professor. He gives me an A on a paper when I don’t deserve it, and I know it. I re-write the paper anyway. Then he is a dry gin and vodka martini or a Molson Canadian or a Guinness. We think we wouldn’t drink as much if the bookstore would hold normal hours. Now he is my first friend to get married and have a child. His wife despises me because I drink too much and tell her how much I love her husband.
The night before he moves away we meet at K. Gallagher’s. I don't know if I have ever cried so hard for someone who did not die, or sleep with me.
I find a key to the city in front of the Old Pink on Allen Street on a Sunday morning. I walk past it three times before picking it up. It is probably a duplicate. Also on this day I find a fortune missing its cookie. It says, “No one is standing in your way anymore, it is time to move forward.” I tend to dislike Allen Street on a Saturday night, but with out it there would be no Sunday morning. Or maybe there would. It probably wouldn’t be the same. I probably would not like it as much.
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