Even the Gas Station Attendant Here Is Nice to MeLeigh Stein
I lost my job at the factory, but before you get mad I want you to know that last night I woke up in the snow without shoes, and I didn’t call up to your window; I let you sleep because I remembered our agreement. This is what happened: he caught me in the freezer with his copy of Ulysses and asked me what I thought I was doing. What could I be doing, I said, what are my options. I still had on my latex gloves and I know you won’t want to hear this part, but I opened a carton of macaroons with my teeth. You have always wanted to do that, he said. Yes, I said. He said, I can’t let you do that. So I ate one. He turned off the lights. I took a yellow cake off a shelf and lit twenty candles to warm our hands. How is this night different from all other nights? There was a time when I didn’t have to sleepwalk everywhere. You remember. I was here. But then I got used to waking up every morning in a different city, without you, without the same sun, the same lack of a view, all that scaffolding, none of the sea, every piece of mail a sympathy card. I can never go back there. I stole his book. When you go to work every morning, I walk to Jerusalem. I am answering your letter. You are ruining my life.
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