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Beginning | Dec 26 2002

M came by today, against my wishes. She knocked and I answered. Two days ago when I left to buy a window shade, I locked the top lock, which I never do. I did it to keep her out of my apartment. (She has—or had—just the bottom lock key.) Today she returned that key, although it’s possible she made a copy first. Did she make a copy? I doubt it. Will I keep locking the top lock? Probably.

We sat at the kitchen table and talked. It took less than five minutes to get to the usual place. The usual place is: She shuts down because of something I say or don’t say, or more often, say but say wrongly. Also the thing I say or don’t say or say wrongly is something crazy—crazy in sense of something that couldn’t possibly (in my mind) cause a person to shut down. Then she storms out. She stormed out quietly this time, which I appreciated.

In the beginning (six weeks ago!) it struck me as strange that the beginning felt like the end. Why the hell does the beginning feel like the end, I kept asking myself. Now I know why: Because it was the end.