She's not crazy, she just forgets sometimes that other people are real. She forgets that they can see her. She forgets that she is real. She forgets about light and reflection, about rods and cones, about compression waves and eardrums. She lives in her brain, sheltered beneath her curly flop of blonde and brown hair.
With one foot on the curb and one hovering over the gutter she tries to walk like a lady, the way she was taught. She doesn't put a book on her head, however. Not this time. She knows from experience that it will not stay there, not at this angle. Mostly, however, it's because she doesn't have a book with her. She's still thinking about the last book she read and she cannot read another until she is finished. It was a good book, but troubling. She wonders, as she considers the book, what it would feel like to put her arms around the author and whisper to him, softly, in his ear. She wonders what it would feel like to approach him from behind and put her hands around his neck and squeeze. She believes, because of the book, that he would let her do this, trusting that she would stop before he suffocated. She wonders if he is right about that. Probably he is. He seems like a smart man.
She has dinner with two friends, a boy and girl who are in love with each other. She is a little sad as she hears them talk to each other, because she can tell that the girl is wonderful and sweet and exactly what the boy needs. She can also tell that he will not stay with the girl long, because he is like that. She hopes that she is wrong about this, because she loves the boy and she wants him to be happy, but she suspects that she is right. When the night is over she hugs them both and gives the girl an awkward little kiss on the cheek. She almost cries as she does it, and she rushes away afterwards in embarrassment. She doesn't regret doing it, she only regrets doing it badly.
At home in bed she imagines them all in a rowboat on a cool, calm ocean night. They laugh and drink wine. With them is the author of that book. He is there to be with her, to be her date. In her imagination they are all better and happier. There is no awkwardness and no foolishness. They are all doing well. "Where are you going?" the author asks her as she steps out of the boat. "I'm going to see if I can walk like a lady on the waves," she says. "I'll be right here. You can watch me." He smiles at her and she places his book on top of her head, the way she was taught.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
