“What should we get? Do you like ice-cream?”
“Always. Ice-cream is my only true love that never leaves me.”
Today I finished my image for my mother’s New York art show, Rise Up Fallen Angel. The more I thought about the theme of the show, the more I was found myself attracted to old grindhouse exploitation films, faded Russ Meyer style prints of unhappy women, a girl named Angel in need of revenge. Now that it’s sent, I vaguely wish I’d done more, but one afternoon slathered in black facepaint, screaming my frustration in an empty apartment, eyes clenched shut trying not to cry, is enough for now.
I saw A. earlier this week, on Monday afternoon, during the beautiful warm. The first time since he broke off the relationship. I was jittery, approaching his house with a very frayed heart, almost too scared to go on, but pitting the starkly intimidating possibility that he might actually answer his door against my near overwhelming desire to see him, with no idea what one says to a person who’s left you sobbing in the street, breathless from pain and sorrow. It was an extremely short visit, held close, but reassuring. He missed me too. He is sorry he’s been unfair. I haven’t had a nightmare since.