Pas de Deux

So all must be well.
He calls in the middle of work, I cannot answer. When I check my voice mail later, there are last minute tickets waiting, there's a mad dash across the city and an abandoned laundry time (I'm already days into nothing but dirty clothes anyways), the stage is whitewashed in swan feathers and I am mute for countless minutes over the Belgian beer after. How those hushed lights, those effortless bodies get me everytime and I am grateful for his care.

My phone vibrates incessantly with invitations from across the island. Friday night, they are scattered in bars with their laughter and all I do is sleep. By the time I am awake again, it seems too late, and the only lesson is things are never as they seem. We pretend to learn, but I know it is too soon, and I fall asleep with cold feet, as ever.

He says he keeps tripping on the finish line, that London evades him and Stockholm has nothing left to offer. I adore the sadness of his blind stumbling only because it mirrors my own. I don't know what I'm doing, I tell him, but I'll keep the keys until I do.

I tell you you must write.

I surround myself with mirrors.