Two more have taken the dive and made the well-traveled migration from Point A to New York City, the land for the restless and hungry. She is my oldest, dearest friend, and he is her fiancé, one of the nicest, most genuine people I know: they have said goodbye to their families, to San Francisco, to their beautiful apartment with the bay windows, and flown three thousand miles eastward. Now they are living out of suitcases and duffel bags and sleeping on the small grey sofa-bed in my room while they wait for next week when they can move into the apartment that will be their new home in Brooklyn.
It is nighttime now, and I am sitting by the small wooden countertop in my kitchen, trying to keep quiet; they are both asleep already, because she is a morning person and likes to get up early and because he loves her and is accommodating to bizarre preferences. I am not a morning person, although sometimes I think I could be if I tried, and so I am here still, wide awake at this late hour when the house is at its most quiet and dark, not yet willing to go to bed.
I have been such a solitary person this past year that it is a little disorienting to suddenly have close friends who are nearby and who are not leaving after a week or two but staying for good. I have gotten used to being by myself wherever I go, and although I have met people here whom I would call friends, I’ve become used to feeling alone, even when I am not. It feels strange now to come home and have people there to chat with and to listen to and to talk with about the day—and my mouth feels to me slow and clumsy from disuse when I share aloud thoughts and ideas and observations that have grown used to keeping inside. >> Continue reading..