The corner pub has added a fire pit to their outdoor patio. Which I love, because if the windows to my flat are open, I can smell it from home. And it smells so delicious. Like fall and approaching holidays and everything good.
And on a Friday night, after a long week of work, sitting right near it with a small glass of whiskey in hand, chatting with my dearest friend about the good and bad and ugly, all is well.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Myz3vBMaNAA&list=PL09C81A29BF5564FA
I know this isn't a new song, but it's doing it for me this early fall.
A few weeks ago I went to lunch with a man I'd dated for a little while. Because we're friends, now. Which, you know, feels very mature.
And so we do things. Like go to lunch. And as we were parting ways, I had a thought and turned to him:
Every time I turn on my gas stove I think about you. Which, well, it must be that the scent of the gas is somehow connected to you? And how could that be? And do you think maybe you have a gas leak in your apartment?
Oh. Yeah. I do, was his response. Without batting an eye or missing a beat, Oh. Yeah. I do.
And I sighed. And laughed, just a little.
Dating in New York. So it goes.
I'm waiting for that scene in a rom-com.
Editor's Note: I have been assured that the super was called and the gas-leak was taken care of.
It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case, always the wrong size to fit the template called language. | Jeanette Winterson
