10:27 p.m. - September 22, 2003
I don't do blasts from the past
Ran into an old friend - that's acquaintance to you - tonight and went out to dinner with her, heard all about acting and the Hollywood scene, her radio show, how her brother preyed on his four younger sisters and how only now can they talk about incest. The latter topic took me by surprise - not the actual discourse, but by the nonchalant exultation and loud voice with which she detailed her family's healing process. I can't say I know her definitively at all now, but I'd swear she was on drugs because her hyper, animated, loud, and eventually grating voice drew attention and mental notes from me pleading for her to shut the hell up. You don't talk about incest in Chili's, or if you do, you don't with me.
A definite . . . chill for me. Sitting there I thought about that discontinuity between us, about how many years ago we had sex twice, back when I was confident and good looking and alive and wondered if she also remembers, and would she recoil if she had forgotten, only to have it stare at her across the table?
There I go again, that Skinnerian in me traversing my veins like miniature Wandering Jews bumping their heads on platelets.
It was pleasant - meaning not a waste of time - to catch up and witness live drama, though the most palatable result is the receipt and business deduction, never mind a stroll down memory lane.
Eh. Who needs friends and acquaintances?
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