the guez

We were on the roof, two rounds into the song game. I had the guitar, noodling through the sudden silence. "How are things?" he asked, looking at me. I turned my face to the overlapping brownstones sleeping below us. "Fine." "I don't know why I have such trouble telling people…" He played with the pick in his hand. "I'm moving to Portland" "oh." My fingers fell silent. "when?" "September." Down below, people were walking home. A garden cat darted past into the shadows. Somebody called out to her friend, her laughter floating up into the air where we sat. "well… congratulations." "thanks" "you'll have to tell jen to be cool with me sleeping on your couch when I come to visit," realizing as I said it, that it was never going to happen. "ok. I will," he said, watching me. "I mean, it's fine. It's a good decision for you. And I barely see you anymore anyway

There are times when my life resembles a bad scene in Bridget Jones' Diary . Monday morning, while out on my run in the park, I encountered the perpetrator of my broken heart and his new girlfriend. They didn't see me, as I was jogging behind them, and so I began a panicked dance of skidding right, then left, then right again, in a desperate attempt to find the appropriate direction to flee. The people walking past must have thought I was dancing with a ghost or doing some enthusiastic warm-up exercise involving flailing limbs and an expression of terror. Finally, finally, I chose a direction and sprinted past, hoping that I remained invisible, or at the very least, looked super fast and sporty. (It never did occur to me to just turn around and run the other way). On my ipod, Erin McKeown lilted into my ears, "I'm the kind of lover who won't run for cover. What kind of lover am I?" It's nice to have a sense of humor about these things. So that if h