Â Â Courtesy images
Heâ€™d been her lover, her tutor, her savior, her guide. Side by side, the night before, theyâ€™d hugged on the posh, new bed in a big mostly empty Village flat sheâ€™d found for them to move in together. No more trading worlds. Now web exec and master chef could walk to work if they wished. Then — sip by sip, puff by puff, and pricey pill by pill — her biggest wish grew therapies and whopping doctor bills. She wanted time to stop and wind him back. On her little brotherâ€™s tip, she acted fast. Flew west to land herself a sweet executive chef slot in foodie-rich L.A. She made new friends; they shared each otherâ€™S blues. September sticks, refueling her with tears. But never enough to snuff the smell, the smoke, the tender catch at the throat; her migraine-deep desire to die just like her lover: in a slick, sick, go-for-broke, grand-slam hoodunit still stubbornly, heartbreakingly unsolved.
On wobbly tiers of black plastic trash bags, his ancient laptop leans. Chipped, funky, scarred and scratched — itâ€™s all he needs for now. Positioned outside a stark Gilroy McDonaldâ€™s, he can pick up enough of a wi-fi wave, wake just enough with an any-size coffee, check enough email and Facebook and YouTube to still feel close enough to summer and its dawning sun to maybe reach fall half-full.
Â© 2012 Al Young