2 March

Over the phone, Massimo tells me not to come over, that he’s sitting in the Sunday scaries, staring at his computer and waiting for something to change; that his bathroom sconces have been out since Thursday, that they only take custom bulbs, and that he’s spent days bathing in the dark. All of this does not change the fact that I’m just around the corner, that Chipolte has changed their bathroom code, and that I am desperately needing to pee.

I ring up to 7, kick off my shoes and leave the door cracked for light. He sits in the swivel and I sprawl out on the couch as we confess to one another– coming clean about feelings of uncertainty and other indulgent anxieties that come only on Sundays. But feelings of inadequacy are mutually dashed within moments. I affirm that he’s the hottest and most interesting girl in the world, and he returns the favor, adding that it’s astounding how humble and good at sports I am. Between antagonizing flights of fancy and doing the real math on going in on a condo in Barcelona, the pity party is left unthrown, and we get back to making grand plans. It doesn’t cross my mind that there might be such thing as too empathetic an ear.

When all the whims are run through, I will put on my shoes, make a left on sixth avenue, and wander into the Japanese grocery store. I’ll take too long to select my pocky, loiter in the freezer section, get sentimental about how long it’s been since I’ve made frozen gyoza. I will check out, decline a plastic bag, and Massimo will be left to pee in the dark.