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5:58 p.m. - May 20, 2003
It's here now and that's what counts
His name is R. and he makes me laugh. I couldnít summarize what we talk about hour after hour but there are liberal doses of poetry, jokes, inquiries into What Would Whitman Do? that only two English majors would find appealing, humorous, and profound. I find it easy to talk with him, self-conscious or shy moments few but present, I want to talk as much as listen. I feel nervous occasionally and he can tell over the phone when Iím blushing. I like that.

He likes my voice and my laugh, my smile.

He is not a Texan but a Montanan and we talk about prairies and vistas, wide-open spaces and woodshops in the back. Iíve told him some about Spec and he told me some about his background and I feel his honesty seep and in return I let down my guard a bit, though deep down that naysaying voice urges Caution! Caution! in neon.

I know itís spring and just as passion dries into summer, Iíll soon back away, find an excuse to close the door. Maybe heíll do the same, maybe not. These things are brief interludes, minor stray chords.

 

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