I. Writing about you is like displacing a pendulum.
It swings back and forth, releases me freely, but never gets me anywhere. It is the same equilibrium position of woe.
II. My job does it work perfectly–to interrupt interruptions and to fill in incessant chances of remembering. Also, to keep me busy when I have thought of everything else and all that was ever left was you.
III. I bought a pair of open-toed wedges today. Ashen blue. Three inches. With a skinny leather strap that is supposed to hold me back from falling.
I tried it on tonight. I slipped four times; glided on the fifth.
Armed with a blister and a quench for revenge, I plan to be pretty. I plan to be pretty for you.
IV. I told you, you could have reciprocated.