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Show DAD-62 things: not to drink ever again and to be seen. I meet George at his apartment in the West Village. There are traces of his wife: framed antique Valentines, a barette on the floor, an ivy on the windowsill, shrivelled and yellow. He offers me wine, doesn't bother me about why when I refuse. We listen to French love songs and smoke good pot. He talks about his wife, hoping that I will help him feel better, but I take up her side as I always do. I know that loving has little to do with compatibility or shared interests, self-fulfillment, or even feelings; it's mostly a decision. Most people simply won't make that decision. It's not a popular idea. What differences does it make without the choosing? Who can be honest about it? Love isn't found or lost: it's done or not done-mostly not. Meanwhile, there's plenty of friendly fun, better maybe than all that trying. When George realizes I'm not listening, he changes the subject, and eventually we make love. It is good. I don't know how much of it is the pot, but I do know he has an almost arrogant control. Here, arrogance is fine. We come together because he is able to orchestrate well. The together thing is no big deal to me, but there is a certain sense of achievement. A few years ago I might have thought it meant we were in love. But I know now that it's simply a mixture of the pot, arrogance, and my ability to enjoy where I can. Not that it matters, but I'm sure he will want to see me again, for I, too, have my arrogance and my orchestrations. I ask George to find me a cab, and I go alone to my walk-up on Second Avenue uptown. Cat greets me with chortles and chirps and kneads the carpet, grinning up at me with her yellow eyes. She is a little gray and white cat I found on a morning after one of my regrettable all-nights out. It was bright morning, with the sun |