You know, when Gene said he'd be gone for three weeks, I was
thinking "Cool. I'll be strong, good character builder here."
I'm beginning to crack. I'm searching out chats on subjects I don't
even like. I might go to a book signing Friday night at the Barnes
and Nobel because the author, Alexandra Robbins, is hot. Her books
seem interesting, though not really in my demo (overachieving high
school kids, sororities, Ivy League goings on), but my goodness,
she's ginchy.
Gene would tell me what I need to hear. He'd talk me down from the
ledge, saying something like "Don't date writers, son, they'll get
ink in your eye" or "You're that sick of the bar scene that you'd
willingly scope for a hot writer in a bookshop on a friday night?"
or "Here's some exceedly stupid song lyrics for you to interpret
while I examine Ms. Robbins on my own."
We need you. Hell, I need you. I'm a mess without you. I miss you so
damn much. I miss being with you, I miss being near you. I miss your
laugh. I miss your scent; I miss your musk. When this all gets sorted
out, I think you and me should get an apartment together.
- Ray Bradley
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