March 14, 2006


I remember standing in the room where the coats were, debating what to do. Change is pressed upon one. This was her translation from the French. The question was about whether change is possible.

When she arrived she smiled and waved. Had she come over and talked I would have welcomed it, but since she didn’t I stayed on the couch.

Later, as people took their seats at the table, I saw an open seat beside her and almost took it but instead went to the kitchen to get my potatoes. By the time I finished transferring the potatoes to a serving dish, another man was in that seat.

In the room with the coats I decided she wasn’t for me and vice versa. I may have been wrong, but you cannot divide yourself into two people and live two different lives to see which turns out best.

There is another world, she said, again translating from the French, but it is in this one.

March 7, 2006


I recently walked passed a patch of grass in Prospect Park where Teresa and I once sat after riding a pedal boat. I have some photos of her from that day. I think of them as the “betrayer photos,” because, as I subsequently learned, she was cheating on me then. Possibly this designation fits every photo I ever took of her, but these particular photos are the only ones I’m certain about. Whenever I look at them, I turn them around in my mind and see myself through her eyes. She thinks: He doesn’t know.

And it’s true: he doesn’t.