Lunch date

Some things don’t change. They repeat again and again. Some even settle deep like sedimentations of rocks. Like the nature of curly hair.

Facebook is great. Now I can write to you whenever I want and not have to worry about you not reading. You are on my friends list. You have to read, and stay silent. You must, that’s the rule. And no one would know the better, these letters I write. They would just think, I was just writing. They don’t know I am writing them to you, but maybe these letters, they’re also for them, anybody else who wants to read. And respond, because these letters are not for them, it is easier to respond. In fact, that’s the rule. The rule is, letters not written for you you can respond to. Like love. Love not for you is easier to talk about. And pain. Pain not of you is easier to feel.

Today I'm going to see a friend.  We're having lunch in the city.  We'll talk about all kinds of things, but mostly I will be asking him about his hair.  He has long, unkempt hair that he said he grows out because he's lazy.  I will also ask him what he has been doing to take care of his health, it's getting worse everyday.  He gets headaches a lot, and has lost his appetite.  He doesn't eat, only drinks soups from his coffee cup.  I will tell him, you must take care of your health or you will die.  If you die, who will shine flashlights on mountains? Who can calmly crash a car except you?  If you die, I will die too, because there will be no one left to calm me with that soft voice that never undulates, it scolds and soothes, grunts and ejaculates with the same silent middle tone.  And who will take pictures of me naked if you die?  Who will see mangoes in my breasts and eat them like everyday was a windless summer afternoon? 

I will tell him all that.  I don't know what he would do.  He would be quiet, I guess.  He often is.  Then we would walk to the lake, probably, and he would tell me to look at the light dancing on the water, and I would look, even though it's a cloudy day and there is nothing there except a putrid blue.