Dedicate

Friends could be measured against a father and son relationship. The son is the vessel and the captain is the father who steers his son to shore, making sure he does not capsize or become adrift. Some friends release their anchors too soon. Others drop their anchor but the anchor does not find a resolute hold. It fights the current and decides to alter its course. The ship rocks and beats back and forth.

Linda wasn't kidding when she said she would ensconce herself under a rock and make love to her textbooks. Her disappearance has become an anomaly. But it is not a surprise, neither is it a refutation of our friendship. It heralds the fact that "friends don't need to see each other every day."

While I beat back the growing hair that invades my line of sight, I realize that graduation is upon me. In less than three months I will be out of school and foraging for work. My mentality might have changed by then, but I am certain that I want to write (at this moment it is my goal!) and dedicate my life to writing.

I came across McNally and Jackson books, a (truly) independent store, last night before I dined with Tiff. The lower east side was beginning to bustle. A string of night lights awoke in response to the flood of hipsters and LESers overrunning the sidewalks and jamming the corner cafes. When the sun tucked into the horizon Tiff and I moved from our (shared) pescado dish to mouth-watering deserts. Our handsome, Dominican, Rufus Wainwright-look alike host entertained us with the night's specialties. It wasn't until our bill arrived that I realized we weren't in a cheap, run-down eatery. If the adjacent bar wasn't enough to incite my fancy, our fellow patrons should have moved me. The dim of the lights, the hovering music mixed with the splashes of dishes and clinking of cocktail glasses kissing teeth and invisible sinks. Tiff and I sat across from each other. Though I strained to see her in the low light I appreciated the time we were spending. In a few months she would be out of the state in a dorm and I would be marooned without her immediate presence. Her smile was my currency to happiness. I turned the possibility in my mind and beckoned her hand (in my mind, too). As the rectangular digital clock read 6:54, we paid for our meal and fumbled our way to make the 7:10 movie.

This was the first time I watched a movie with two of my friends. Joe waited for us at the nook of the theater. With a medium crate of popcorn in hand, the trio ventured into three open seats. And we certainly did step on the two women's toes as we squeezed past them. A kernel prances onto her fluffy hair and we settle into our seat as the trailers commence.

A movie does something to me; it reveals the tears I have cried as the credits pull up. Though they air dry Tiff and Joe might have glimpsed my softer side unpeeled. Joe has privilege to see me cry while Tiff, I trust to keep my tears a story unshared, an aspect unrevealed. The ending of Being Flynn moved me to tears. I entered an infinitely slow paced state of mind after exiting the movie theater. I had tunnel vision; I only thought about rekindling with the father (the film is about a lost son and a lost father equally swimming their way toward each other).