Lessons From the Kissing Booth

The kitty follows me around the apartment when I'm getting ready for work in the morning. I sort of understand why people have cats now.

Walking downtown in the rain today, I ran into an acquaintance. While catching up he told me that he had recently lost someone close to him, and that he saw her constantly in books and songs, in billboards and the sound of passing cars. In the end it wasn't so much the loss itself that was causing him such pain, it was the fact that the world around him just wouldn't let her go. Now he walks with his head down, and he feels that he's missing so many of his experiences in trying to block out the constant reminders.
I'm not sure what causes these confessions from people I hardly know, but we stood under a constant drizzle and I told him about someone I like to think of, how he's a heartbreak waiting to happen, and how I plan to ride the ache as long as it lasts. He saluted the feeling, agreeing that unrequited is sometimes the way to go. After all of this normal topics of conversation seemed a little too flippant, so we parted ways.

Later, I sat in a coffee shop reading "Henry and June." While I stared out the window at the rain I realized that someone was walking up behind me at the same time that someone outside was crossing the street. Their reflections each grew until, for just a moment, they were exactly the same size. Then the man behind me turned and sat down and the one outside continued up the street, and I marveled that both of them had missed that moment of fitting together.