I wasn’t anxious about crashing, but about landing.
He’d tell me fragments about himself, but not much more. He was like a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle to which I’d only found the corners.
Alberto did something to displease a Russian customer, who, as a sort of warning, mimed slitting his throat.
I ran to the bathroom more times than a teenage bulimic. I’m not used to all this emotion.
I have a memory of a group of us dancing on a pontoon on the lake one Friday night that I think about if ever I need to reduce my blood pressure.
After exertions, he told me more about his life. He is, of course, involved with someone, blah blah, they’re breaking up, blah blah, or maybe not, blah blah.
On my birthday I go to an exhibition. Its themes are: death, separation, misery, gloom. Everything but fun. Perfect!