Each of my relationships ended a little more quickly than the one before it. This pattern reached full bloom in July, when I cleaned out my apartment on West Fifty-Eighth Street, Manhattan, sold or gave away almost everything I had left after the divorce, and crammed everything that remained into a Ford station wagon that was in no better shape than I was. I drove to Buffalo, where I was to move in with a blameless young woman with whom I'd been keeping company.
When I pulled into her driveway, she came out to meet me, a mask of concern on her face. "I don't think this is going to work," she said.
"Now you tell me," I said.
- Afterthoughts, Version 2.0, "Ariel," p.12
No comments:
Post a Comment