See you later

Last week, Ebru and Daniel, our wonderful friends, had a party, they often have parties, wonderful ones, but now they are moving to Berlin for the foreseeable, so this was the last party.

The people who are moving into the apartment next, they were at the party, too, which never happens, when does that happen? In New York? No. But it did.

And we gathered round these people, this lovely couple, and said, "We come here for all the holidays, including and especially birthdays." They said, "Oh, the pressure is on."

We used to live next door to Ebru and Daniel, in an apartment that was the mirror image of theirs, we shared the same brilliant view and the same awful landlord. When they traveled, I watered their plants, and sometimes after I watered their plants, I sat in their apartment, the mirror image of ours, and considered the chances, the odds, the surprise and the joy, of meeting them and knowing them. (And thought about lifting each leg of the chairs in our mirror image but much messier apartment, wiping the dust off the bottom of each leg. But a chair is not a horse, its legs don't have knees.)

And we know them still. This was only, "see you later." They are off to Berlin, and they've left in our care, a plant. They got this plant before the pandemic, and when they left New York the first time, they gave it to a friend, who took care of it until they moved back. And now this plant is with me. "What does it need," I asked. They said: "Water!"

And at this party, which was see you later and not goodbye, there was a phone that looked old-timey but wasn't, we were meant to pick up the corded receiver, and record a message for Ebru and Daniel, and later the friend who brought the phone, would send them the audio file, and they would listen to it on the plane, and cry. (That was the idea. I hope they didn't cry on the plane.)

And all night long people drifted to the phone, sat down on the stairs, facing the wall, and recorded voicemails, rambling and tender, someone had even jotted down notes to organize their thoughts (but not the writer, the writer improvised, the writer pulled a Costanza, said nothing of consequence, because she had no words). And after they recorded their voicemails, they turned back to the party, and they were dabbing their eyes, their cheeks shining.

See you later, Ebru and Daniel! XO

NEWSY STUFF

My story, "Junco and Wolf," has been published in A Public Space No. 33. A Public Space's mission to seek out overlooked and unclassifiable work, and to publish writing from beyond established confines.

Please give my heart a rush, read my story, and tell me what you think! You can reach me by replying to this email.

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