そういえば最近SATC（シーズン中に911が起き、直後のエピソードの終わりにCity of NYへの献辞が掲げられた）を見直して、留守電のオート再生で気まずくなったり、待ち合わせ失敗したりしていて驚いたところだった。
Our conversation is relaxed, winding, downright Seinfeldian, as we go in-depth on some pretty random topics, such as why candy tastes better from a gas station on a road trip than it does at any other time, and what states have the best license plates and mottoes, and how much we both hate convertibles because of the wind and noise (and that we actually think everyone hates them, even the people who drive around in them, pretending to like them).
After we get unpacked and situated, Grant takes me into town for pizza and beer and a game of pool that I badly lose.
If you don't want to talk about it - which I understand - then just give me more flavor on London. What do you order at your pub? Fish and chips? Yorkshire pudding? Shepherd's pie? I want to picture you.
P.S. I'm a sucker for shepherd's pie. And you.:)
Needless to say, I'm thrilled to see Scottie when he arrives at my apartment the evening before our flight, a box of my favorite cookies from our hometown bakery in hand.
"I am being serious," he says, untwisting both ends of the package and pouring the whiled line of candy into his mouth.
The bartender tells him the cottage pie is his favorite - and I watch Scottie pretend to ponder this, then order the fish and chips. Meanwhile, Grant and I go with the house recommendation.
"Cottage pie. What a cute name," Scottie says, looking at Grant. "Is that like shepherd's pie?"
Grant shakes his head and explains the difference - cottage is beef, shepherd's is lamb - before we segue to other topics.
Around two, we return to the Muffin Man for tea and scones, and I finally confide the rest - from Byron's attempted suicide to the metaphysical debate about ending one's life prematurely to the disastrous meeting at the hospital to what Grant said about us.
I forgot to eat, and then finally remember and walk to the diner and order a burger and fries that I can't make myself eat, only to return home and listen to more messages that are not from Grant.
We listen to music and cook, making shrimp fettuccine, garlic bread, and a tossed salad.
I watch her stir her Bloody Mary with the celery stalk, wondering how she could not know how her very sick brother-in-law is doing.
The ketchup is now freely flowing onto his fries, but he still doesn't look up.
It takes me a whole subway ride and walk back to my apartment - and another thirty minutes standing at the kitchen counter and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich - before I realize that the feeling I had when I left Matthew's apartment wasn't déjà vu at all.
Instead I get up, eat a bowl of cereal, take my prenatal vitamin, and go for a long walk by the East River.
I make a cup of tea, add lemon and honey, sit down at my desk with fresh determination.
My flight got in on the late side, so everyone has already eaten dinner, but my mom made a Kringle for dessert - a Wisconsin tradition and family favorite.
To the right is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase overflowing with books, old and new, hardcover and paperback. I take a few steps over to it, reading some familiar titles, Angela's Ashes, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, All the Pretty Horses, Beloved. Running my finger along the spines, I say, "Have you read all of these?" "Pretty much," Grant says, coming up behind me.
"Wow," I say, nodding, still looking, spotting a very worn copy of The Secret History, one of my fall-time favorites. I point to it and tell him I love it.
"Me too," he says. "One of the few books I've read more than once."
Emily Giffin, The Lies that Bind より