All tomorrow’s parties

Dear Lyla, what can I say?

The rubber straps of my flip-flops glow in the dark.

It’s late at night on a Friday and I’m walking across the living room towards the kitchen with an empty glass of wine in my hand. Sixteen Candles is on TV tonight and I’d rather not go out for a change. All the lights are out save for the TV’s eerie bluish glow behind me now. The rubber straps of my flip-flops glow in the dark.

This will probably make no sense to you, but as I stay home tonight and do nothing, talk to nobody, all the plots advance on their own, multiple story arcs connect: Cybill’s apple, the blonde, the wine, the TV, Dennis’ motley crew, the Springsteen bootlegs, the park, the flip-flops, a recent photograph of you, spending a fortune on comic books this month, my job that sucks & I’m looking for a new one.

Vacations from work start today. I don’t know it yet, but tomorrow I’ll wake up at 6am and jog for over 12 miles at the park in slightly more than one hour and a half. It will nearly rip me to shreds and pretty much total the rest of the Saturday but I’ll do it anyway, and then when I’m over at Dennis’ for drinks before dinner he’ll clearly point out that all the effort must be for something, that I either want something too bad or desperately need to get away from it.
I’ll tell him of Cybill and I’ll tell him of Cindy and above all I’ll tell him of yourself— only not really, only in broad brushstrokes, no details, hardly any names. He will say nothing, smile and then casually mention he’s invited Tess for dinner with us but she’s just called in to cancel it for no good reason.

But I don’t know that yet. It’s still Friday.
And the rubber straps of my flip-flops glow in the dark.
And I so dearly wish you were here.