We talked about things, but we didn’t Talk about Things. We talked about Truman Capote, puppies, and the weather; we talked about Europe and Chicago and the smell of old books. We didn’t talk about much of anything at all.
I wish he’d tell me I’m his kind of girl, but it’s possible that I’m not. I think I have a fairly narrow niche market.
Either way, I’m glad we cleared the air. The door is open, the wound is healing, and I’m reminded that our best conversations never involved much talking.
For the past two days, I’ve been wearing long underwear and listening to a mix CD from 2004. I’m not sure how I feel about either of these developments.
Bright and early tomorrow, I’m hopping a bus to Chicago and will likely be blog-free until Tuesday. Try to keep it together as best you can. That’s what I’m doing, anyway.