Left behind.



One would think when a spouse goes out of town, one would shout for joy and do whatever one wants... Eat crumbly cookies on the nice sofa and in the bed. Terrorize the town, and maybe get a tattoo or two. Get into fist fights, but avoid the black eye or losing a tooth as your mate'll return after all.



Once my parents left little June-not yet seven- with the neighbors and took me somewhere. Resentful at missing out on the fun we were having without her, she snuck back into our house fuming, marching back and forth with fists in the air. She dumped a jar of Taster's Choice and entire bag of sugar into a plastic gourd full of water. In a gesture full of bravado, she glugged, guzzled, guggled, a gallon of the stuff! She showed 'em. Who likes being left behind.



Last night C called full of fun and excitement. He and Joel had just enjoyed dinner at Basix, a gay steak cafe. He had never seen so many ripped pecs in tight girly tees before- tees with tapered sleeves, you know the kind. He said it was a "getting to know you" kind of datey joint, too much of a costant techno beat to be for intimate couples. But their woodfired pizza was kickass. Poor Joel has had another spot of bad luck earlier this week. The freight company skewered his piece with the forklift gouging a good sized hole in the middle. This mangled piece was already late being shipped to a show in Cologne.