i’d kiss him. if he’d let me.
Continued…
I tend to lose touch with friends when they move away. I don’t correspond well and I’m always caught up in too much drama to worry about anyone else. I know. It’s selfish. I’m working on it.
Peter and I have been friends for a while. A short while…just over a year. But it’s remarkable because he spent the year being a little globe trotter while I spent it in boondocks USA. Not anymore. He’s back in England…for now…and so am I.
I haven’t seen him in nine months but somehow we’ve managed to stay friends. He thinks I’m funny. And when it was four a.m. for him and he’d had too much scotch it was usually still a decent hour for me back in America. So he called and I liked it because, you know, international dialage is cool.
Anyway, we had a thing two months in. A year and nine weeks ago to be precise. I don’t usually count like that, like a girl. But he’s one of the reasons I chose Manchester over London. And he’s on his way over.
My ears are starting to ring. I thought I was over that.
22 August 1998
(Footnote: Peter = this guy. )
