“We trust our shit very well.”

“I would say that’s very fair, Mr. Monroe.”

I enter back into the apartment, placing my schmiggy on the desk. It is fully charged and ready to rumble. The most striking feature of the sky today is its blueness. There is a kettle of water heating on the stovetop. I have to clean the French press out.

It’s been a while since I’ve made an espresso, not since I’ve been here in New York at least.

Musette was kissing me all over my face this morning before she left for work. If she doesn’t come home from work today, I will cry about that moment for the rest of my life.

Piper said it becomes harder once you have children and that she cries enough tears to defeat the drought. I don’t doubt it. When I was younger I cried my eyes out one night imagining the deaths of my two little swimming turtles. I cried thinking about the death of my old family dog too, but when the event actually unfolded I hardly released a crack in my voice. It is only now, as I think back over the dog’s life and death that the tears begin welling in my stomach again.

Having life pass me by is a problem. It is an enemy. This writing, though wonderful at piercing through the numbness, has also caused me such disassociation. I am like the father at the beach who can’t seperate from business long enough for a swim or a genuine smile.

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