January 22, 1995
I’m leaving tomorrow. Did you forget that I live in Oakland and go to graduate school? I did. Teresa and I are pretty sad. This morning I woke up to Teresa running her gentle fingers over my hair and back. I woke up, and she stroked my face.
“How’s my pimple?” She paused and examined it.
“It’s one of the best pimples I’ve ever seen.” And now I must describe this pimple. It’s in the middle of my forehead, and I can feel my pulse in it. And I think if I crossed my eyes up I could see it without a mirror.
It’s all because I ran out of my antibiotics and decided that I probably didn’t need them any more, and we see the result. I’m like a manic depressive who occasionally goes off her meds just for the thrill of it.
Later we wandered down town, went to the movies and then sat down for coffee in a deserted restaurant. We were quiet and a little sad.
“What would you do if I died?” I said.
She put her finger gently on my pimple. “It’s not that bad, Princess.”‘
“What would you do?”
“I’d be very depressed for a long time.” She paused and I waited for more. “And I’d never love anyone ever again.” I still waited. “And I’d always be sad and never have sex again for the rest of my life until I met someone new. What would you do if I died?” she said.
“Would you always wear black?”
“Yeah, for the rest of my life.”
“And maybe navy blue.”
I wonder if I feel sick because I’m leaving. I feel so odd and sad and floaty.