J came around this morning. i was in bed reading that author whose other book he borrowed from me. the one he returned all scratched up and worn. he felt bad about that but i said he shouldn't. i love that it has his fingerprints all over it.
i'm sad that he's leaving town. i should be happy and excited for him, but i can't be. so it's a slightly sombre coffee and chat today, because i can't not think that this is the last time we do this. somehow i find myself telling stories about my wild aunt. his eyes shine. perhaps he is my wild aunt: elusive, driven by unknown forces, running away to unknown places.
as a child, aunt christine was my favourite. until my parents told me she was crazy. though they probably used the word 'troubled'. in telling the story today, i realise that i want to know her once more. i feel sad for her troubles, which weren't troubles so much as differences, which her family tried to extinguish.
christine was never good with men. she often ran away with the wrong man and returned with bruises. or maybe pregnant.
i don't know J's man, and have only heard the difficult stuff that has tainted my view of him. i want his wrongness to be a reason for J not to run away with him. but maybe i'm just pretending that these 'don't go' feelings come a place (of rational judgment) other than my own emotional need. because when we talk, sitting in my lounge room (or in the park, or at that café, or standing on the street below my window), it feels really good. and really good is sometimes really hard to find.
not sure if you'll read this J, but thank you for all your lovely words and hugs. i'll see you in paris. x
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