February 9, 2015

In Akron M has died. He was sex in gym shoes, smooth and muscular and always breaking the school’s sit-up or push-up record. I crushed on him madly. In the obituary photo he looked like a tired old man, and I would never have known him. I hope he wouldn’t be offended by this bit of an elegy from the olden days.

First day at the Racquet Club, before their new wilderness of machines. Swam for the first time in who knows how many years, in salt water, that was lovely and thick and scentless and cool, but to which I lost my trunks so repeatedly that I had to get out until I can find new ones. I wonder why “trunks” and “pants” are plural? It’s the same in Italian.

S wants to cook an Indian dinner here for his friends and me. I suppose I could say “our friends,” though guarding against presumption has made me look remote. I would never have thought of such a thing. It is wonderful.

Plans for Washington Place take a jolt and proceed.