July 16, 2015

Wine last night with G, who left Asheville for Virginia Beach in 1986 and who was the last woman I ever dated. . . in the full sense of the word. We were good and surprising friends then, but it still surprised me to get her call. I suspected something was wrong with her marriage, and I was right, and we talked about that over wine at the Charlotte Street Pub. She looks good. She looks like herself grown old. She was the queen of the Spa, one of the most vivacious women in Asheville. Does she remember that as I do? If so, does it make her sad now that she is no longer sure if anybody loves her? I remembered her distinctive voice patterns, and the concerned nature which has now become quite motherly– she brought her 15 year old son and his friend, who skateboarded while we talked. It was good to talk to an adult. I do lament my solitariness, so it was good– “good” is not the right word– to hear the ways in which the usual course of human relations can blow up in people’s faces. Thank God she was not asking for advice, for I had none to give. Men at a certain age get frightened and turn into jerks. I saw it in my dad. I’d probably see it in me if I could stand back far enough. If we are to see each other again, that much time cannot elapse.