This is a story about things that happened a long time ago. Things that happened before you were here.

Once upon a time, as they say in fairy tales, I was wandering the streets of San Francisco at four in the morning. It was October or November, I can't really remember which. The weather was awful and wet. I wore black canvas tennis shoes that soaked up the puddles I kept stepping into over and over. My socks wet with depression making that "plut, plat, plut plat" noise over and over again.

The story goes that I walked up to my apartment, opened the door, climbed the stairs and stood at the door to my bedroom. Behind the door he slept quietly with two dogs- one clutched to his chest the other wrapped behind his legs. And I, I stood there silently, trying to decide if I should open the door or go back out into the rain. Should I open the door and sit on the edge of the bed, my face a mess of snot and tears- my mind a complete and utter wasteland of thoughts. Walking in the rain with wet socks and no hope for a better day always seemed like such a better option.

The story continues but gets to a very boring impasse: I stood outside the door trying to make a decision for hours. The light from the early morning sun filtered into our apartment while I sat in front of the door to our room chain smoking cigarettes. Part of me thinks I kept smoking so that I'd run out of cigarettes and have an excuse to leave the house. I could walk for at least another hour or two in search of a corner store that might be open this early. A corner store where I could buy another pack of cigarettes and maybe a coke. I'd walk home in the early morning sunlight thinking of how I'd had something to do. That I wasn't just awake because I was going insane but that I was awake because I needed cigarettes and a soda. This is how a crazy person rationalizes what they do.

Stories are supposed to have a beginning, middle and end. So, I suppose this is the middle of the story. This is the part where I walked home and again, stood at the door to my bedroom. This is the part where I open the door and tip-toe quietly to our bed. This is the part where I slide under the covers hoping not to disturb him, but the dogs stir and make noise. He rolls over and opens his eyes from a broken slumber. The look isn't one of concern. It doesn't say, "where have you been." It doesn't say, "Why are you coming to bed just now." It doesn't say, "Why is your hair wet, why do you look like shit."

It says, "Why the fuck are you waking me up when I have to wake up in three hours to go fold tshirts and stock displays at my store?"

Stories are supposed to have a beginning, middle and end. So I suppose this is the end of the story.

I disregard the look on his face. I kiss the dog on the head and roll over. My wet hair on the pillow I fall asleep faster than ever. I am tired of walking around at night. I am tired of everything. It will only take me another two years to wake up and realize it.

Sweet dreams the dog says to me as it licks my shins and I drift off to sleep. Happily ever after.

for natalye

happy birthday,

There is this feeling that wraps around me like a thousand blankets on the coldest winter morning. I can't begin to explain it, you would have to be there to understand it exactly. There is this feeling that wraps around me like a thousand blankets on the coldest winter morning.

We are having breakfast at this new cafe, down in the southern part of town. The part of town I tell visitors that I, "Never go to."

I ask for coffee and two sugars and you only order a glass of orange juice. There is pulp around the rim of the glass. You drink it all in one long gulp. I am complaining of heartburn while you talk about heartache. I am sure somewhere, it is the same thing. A foul awful feeling that rises up from your gut to your throat. It burns, it burns, it burns.

There is this feeling that wraps around me like a thousand blankets on the coldest winter morning. We are the same person only thousands of miles away from each other, even if we were actually across from each other at this breakfast table.

When the check comes I slide my bank card across the table and you'll smile. I promised you breakfast, I promised you to never be cold, I promised you whatever side dishes you wanted.

A million years ago we sat in the same place. Face to face, but so far away from each other. There is a thickness in the air, you call it silence. I call it safety.

There is this awful feeling that wraps around me like a thousand blankets on the coldest morning. I am writing you a love letter. The kind that I keep hoping for in my mailbox. Only, it is Sunday or a holiday. The kind of day that the mail doesn't arrive on.

There is this feeling that wraps around me like a thousand blankets on the coldest winter morning. The only problem is that it is July and I put all the blankets away into the attic months ago. I am sweating, tossing and turning because try as I might- you're not here next to me.