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Coat | Feb 20 2004

I remember a coat she had that was enormous. That was the style of the coat; it was designed to look three or four sizes too big. Whenever she wore it, I thought of the suit David Byrne wears in Stop Making Sense. He comes out with that look of his—bug-eyed, the long neck, very clean-seeming—and he’s wearing a suit with shoulders much wider than any person’s shoulders could possibly be. That’s what she looked like in her coat, except in her case the coat made her seem smaller, whereas David Bryne tottered about in his suit like a well-scrubbed giant.

My one memory of her wearing the coat is from the lobby of her building, the one across from the park. She’s facing me with her back to the elevators, and I’m standing four or five strides away, in the middle of the mailbox area. She’s never looked more beautiful than this, lost in her ridiculous coat, but for some reason I’m keeping my distance.

Also it seems that we’re talking, that we’re standing a certain distance apart and talking. Could we have parted and started talking again? My sense rather is that I’ve just arrived; I’ve just arrived and we’re talking, and for some reason I’ve drifted over to the mailbox area.

Why am I standing so far from her?