Contemporaneous: Chapter 59
59. A woman sits behind a table just inside the door – she’s maybe fifty, with curly silver hair, pink horn-rimmed glasses, and wearing this mauve cardigan that weighs down her shoulders until they’re sagging. I want to say she looks good for her age, but then realize I’m her age, but just don’t see myself that way. I give her my name, she consults her iPad, ticks me off, and then points me to a table in the corner with the number “8” on it. There are other tables, too, guys seated at each, nervously smoothing out their hair or their blazers or whatever, a few of them even…
07
I lie in bed and, as my sleeplessness winds into the early morning hours, I think of my friend, Sam, who took his own life about eight years ago. I met him in 2007 when I went back to school to study professional writing and editing as a mature-age student – he was fifteen years younger than me, infinitely more talented than me at the same age (although he probably was regardless of age), intelligent, and funny (with a dry sense of humour). Once school had finished, we kept sporadically in touch over the years, and I always enjoyed his company. But I’m a misanthrope when it comes to everyday…