Kismet

Earlier tonight I sat at this computer checking my e-mail. As usual these days, I had no messages, and that made me feel extremely lonely. I thought of Catchka, told myself I should call her, but then thought better of it. I figured maybe it would be one of those conversations in which I fished--shamelessly--for reassurance about the "meant-to-be-ness" of my tormented friendship with Mr. R. I would have wanted her to say to me, "you know you guys are soooo going to be together," or something like that. And I didn't want to be that selfish, that much of a cliche of myself. I thought I would just e-mail her on monday, deliver the story of my hang time with him in detached, glib phrases, and punctuate the anecdote with something like "Why doesn't he love me yet, exactly?"

At some point shortly after I'd decided not to call her, she called me from a used cd shop in New England where she lives. She wanted me to validate some purchases she was thinking of making, and she regaled me with the abridged version of her weekend drama. It was the nicest phone call I've gotten in a while. So simple, but I was on her mind the same time she was on mine. Her call was a generous gift.

After we hung up, I ground up some Eight O'Clock Coffee beans and settled in with one of the new books I checked out from the library today. And I felt glad for her presence in my life. I felt understood and important. At the end of the day, that's all I really wanted.