After I wrote yesterday, Ski called me from his parents’ house in Jersey and told me that his father had died while Ski was on the plane. The similarity of our circumstances was hard to ignore, I tried to offer whatever paltry condolences I could, telling myself not to get worked up and make these occurrences mean something more than they do. That’s all beyond my control, and rather than make the loss of a parent the basis of a relationship, it’s probably more appropriate to just assure him he has a friend. (in opposition to this is the other voice in my head, fed up with being appropriate, throwing dishes and lip-synching to Morrisseyplease please please let me get what I want this time)
True Stories with Teeth