Time passes

Time passes and Cybill and I are driving home one Saturday evening, back from the cinema, from the new Woody Allen movie. She is telling me about this kid who went to College with her and majored in Armenian or something like that, while most of her friends, herself included, majored in English, maybe French.
Armenian names usually end in -ian, she is saying, followed with a list of what she tells me are common surnames. They all end in -ian, as promised.
Once she’s done I add one last name to her list. “Kardashian,” I say. She looks at me in a queerly funny, what-the-fuck-kind-of way.
“Video killed the radio star,” I smile.

So time’s passed and it passes still, and if I look back to the months before I’ll see many things like my abortive job hunting, fallen short, busted kneed running at the park for the umpteenth time and gaining weight because I stopped working out altogether, also stopped writing for no real reason and it ought to be such a crime, and I get stuck halfway through a Virginia Woolf novel, then Cybill making such good friends with the boys, our repeatedly going out with Bryce and Dennis, hitting bars, restaurants, emptying bottle after bottle of champagne, wine, vodka. “I’m getting fat,” I bitch and moan around to everyone. “You’re not fat, you’re happy,” Dennis says before ordering the next round.

Maybe it was not supposed to be like this but maybe it was. The most incredible thing about it all is that we’re not really wondering, not really thinking about it: Time passes and we glide along, unstuck, uprooted, changed, first lost then later found.