It's easier to write about C than it is to write about the rest of my life--H, school, etc.
Yesterday, H put money down on a new apartment. It's down in this area. I've seen it. Small, kind of shabby. I hate it, but I can't say anything. It's not as though I'm going to be living there. It's his life now.
Anyway, he came home and rolled a cigarette. He looked quiet and sad. He put the cigarette down, fiddled with junk on the coffee table, looked around the room. Then he got up, went into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind him.
I could hear him crying. Weeping. There's crying and there's weeping and weeping is so much sadder.
I waited a few minutes before going in. I didn't want to go in there. But it didn't matter. I could have walked out the front door just then, gotten in my car, driven to the airport and caught a plane anywhere in the world and it wouldn't have mattered. I'd still have heard that sound. And I would still feel lonely and guilty and ashamed. And sad, deep down in my bones.
So I stood up, pushed open the door, went in and sat down on the bed. And we held each other and wept.