No Vampires

I want to write about being in the city on Friday, strolling across Washington Square Park, my old stomping grounds. And our meal at I Tres Merli in Soho; loft-space with brick walls, wide open doors to the street... and our waitress, Sara, who was from Transylvania. No vampires, she said. She treated us to flutes of cold sparkling champagne because it was so rare for her to chat with regular people.

Or maybe about the night before that, when we drove to New Jersey to have dinner with Laurie, Michael's long-time friend from California, and how we met at her cousin's house; her cousin who just over a month ago lost her son to suicide. At one point I realized that every adult at the dinner table had known someone who had killed themselves. I could see Claire through the glass doors in the living room, speaking quietly to the tiny birds in cages.

Then yesterday I wrote in my notebook; I am happy to be back with Michael. Some days I swing so far away from him, I almost lose sight of his face and then, we're nose to nose again, and I am gazing into his blue eyes, earnest. And I feel so happy to have come back, to have found my way back to him, yet again.