On March 17th, I wrote down five simple goals. Goal #1 was this: “set up a date for when I am traveling to Los Angeles, and moving my stuff from Sophia’s place.”
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“I need a ten minute break from this conversation,” she said over the phone from Los Angeles. I was in New York.
I tried to take a ten minute nap. I put the alarm on my iPhone in order to wake me up, my current favorite alarm — the one that sounds like church bells. But I didn’t fall asleep. The room was too hot; management continues to blast heat up the radiator, no matter what the temperature outside, through mid-April, as if they knew better than Mother Nature. My next door neighbor was cooking pungent Korean food. My legs hung over the edge of the too-short couch like wet laundry on a clothesline in a 1950’s Bronx tenement.
After the brief intermission, I told Sophia that I wanted to move my things by June 15th.
“And where are you going to move everything? There’s 25 boxes of books.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to move it somewhere.”
We took another ten minute break, which continued on for three painful days.
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