He told me he was writing a series of short stories. Much like David Sedaris or Jonathan Safran Foer. Only better. Funnier. He mailed me lines that should have been in the New Yorker, and promised I'd be the first to see a more rounded-out draft. I'm still waiting. The rejection letters weren't disheartening. They were an honor. He was this close, his ideas upon ideas littering the papers lazing about in the afternoon breezes.
I left a longtime love to be with this dreamer, throwing away stable for everything but...
I doubted myself and him every minute of the day until four o'clock hit. Because that's when inspiration hit, too, with the uncorking of a cheap table red.
Together, we built epic sentences that meant nothing in the morning.
Story of our life.
When I finally left him, there were pieces of me littering his loft...lazing about in the afternoon breezes. I wonder if he ever picked them up.
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