The unfortunate circumstance of being basically alone with your interior world for the better part of a day and soundtracking it with Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man

It's raining.

It was always raining. But that's not why I left. Moving away is like attempting suicide and meaning it: you have to hate everyone. Saturday night I watched Miss America on TV. Had beer and ice cream for dinner. Voted to keep the swimsuit competition.

It's not raining anymore, but, you know, in the rich interior life, it probably still is. ...

It never seems to rain here. Fog in the morning, fog at night, maybe sun between. No one looks at anyone else. They walk slowly into the streets: entranced; with impunity. There are more Ford Falcons here than any other kind of car.

So I'm leaving you a message that counts as ten—I've probably reached for the phone that many times, at all the wrong times and places. ...

On an average day, I pick up the phone 20 times an hour; put it down without speaking 19. He is speaking to the me who's not there—the one he can speak to most easily; the one who doesn't look at him, or make him look back; the one his son doesn't ask, Why don't you come live at our house? while climbing into her lap. Because there is no lap. Just a voice; the one he comforts himself will always be there.

So many things I could say, I suppose if throughout the day I think of something concrete I'll call and actually say it; otherwise the safest bet is probably just: Hello.

Rings I've lost (in chronological order): sterling silver and moonstone Chinese dragon's head, possibly stolen by crazy roommate number one (although she still denies it); three-quarter-carat antique diamond solitaire (only gift from weird stingy aunt, on the eve of her second wedding: "Don't hock it."), stolen out of old house by junkie friends of friends; adjunct wedding ring, lost on floor of rental car while in South Carolina having affair with best friend.

It's getting worse. Exponentially. This time I actually called hoping you'd answer.

That I invariably fall in love with married men neither surprises nor interests me. That it's precipitated, always, by their deciding they can Confide in me, does.

So in all of your thinking, did you come to any conclusions? I wonder. Of course I wonder.

That I love you because you keep my secrets. Because your son holds my hand when we cross the street. Because you think I know things that maybe I don't. Because you brought me books when I was sick; sat on the floor by the couch when I couldn't get up. Because you never touch me, but I always feel as if you had.

I'm almost sorry I do this—if I should be. I just called to listen; not to leave.