14 August 2013
I write about work in this diary and then just take it out. Lawyers are supposed to be discrete. I hate that.
I’m taking the bus up to Tahoe this morning to join the fam. It’s amazing how quickly Enzo becomes this little stranger. He barely talks on the phone and when he does he’s hard to understand. Yesterday he was telling me something about Florida and gar pike and using Duncan as bait and that gar like cut baits and some other bait that I didn’t quite catch. Not cats, surely. It was like when we watched that video of his three-year-old self and I could hardly understand him. He probably sounds more articulate in this diary than he is in life. It’s hard for me to write what I don’t understand. But mostly, when we’re together, I’m in tune with him, and that’s what makes it into the diary. I hasten to add, this IS non-fiction. But you have to choose what to write.
And whenever I see him after being apart for a few days, he looks different. Of course he’s as handsome as the rising sun, but also different from how I remembered, not as obviously beautiful. And then the Enzo in front of me and the one in my mind slide back together, click, and normal life starts up again.
Teresa’s been super sick the whole week they’ve been up there. Last night she said that the thought of heating up some spaghetti and meatballs and then washing the dish just made her want to cry. So they went to Denny’s. It’s five minutes away.