J.,

usually i’m asking you to think about me and uncross your legs. tonight i’m writing to ask you to think about me and cross your fingers.

i’ve got the movie “All the Vermeers in New York” on my mind.

i doubt you’ve seen it as it’s not very popular. i’m gonna tell you the ending. this may piss you off, but if i don’t then you won’t understand why i’ve been thinking of it.

at the end of the film, one of the main characters is checking out the Vermeers at a museum (the Frick, i think) and he’s getting sharp pains in his head. he goes to the phone booth, calls the chick in the film, and confesses his love for her on her answering machine: “it’s a machine. Anna, if you’re there, pick up. it’s 3:15 in the afternoon. i’m at the museum. i just left our room--the Vermeer room. i just want to tell you that i love you.”

with that, he hangs up, grabs his head (by this time blood is coming out of his ear), and dies.

so, yeah, i’ve been thinking about the movie since friday. i’ve seen it maybe two dozen times in my life and though most people i know who’ve seen it don’t really like it, it effects me very deeply.

friday morning i started getting sharp pains in my head. the back of my skull, near the top. not headache pains. different. sharp, frequent pains.

i’ve been to the doctor 3 times since and tomorrow morning i have an appointment with a neurologist. 

each time that the pain comes, my hand instinctively goes to my right ear. and each time i pull it away, i look at it expecting blood.

now, don’t get me wrong. i’m not writing to say i’m dying. at least i don’t think i’m dying. it just hurts like hell. like you wouldn’t believe. about every three to five minutes.

you know my tendency to let my mind wander and so, since friday, it’s been doing just that. i’ve wondered who i would call if i *did* feel the end was near. who would i saddle with that ridiculous burden of “final words” and such melodramatic nonsense? your name is the only one that pops into my head. and while it rolls around in my brain, it temporarily eases the pain.

and i suppose that’s what it comes down to, huh: who eases the pain? who cancels out the hurt of failure and poor living? of bad days at work and sad days that come for no reason? the disappointment in past decisions? of being misunderstood at the exact wrong time? of true regret?

who do i want to embrace when i’ve got the mean reds?

who do i think of when time is running out? when walls are closing in? when the wolves are at the door?

who do i hope is on the other end EVERY time the phone rings?

you.

bukowski once wrote about how he knows that things can get horrible. he ends that particular poem with “and that’s why my number’s listed.”

i’ve never been as eloquent as that s.o.b. can be when he’s at his best, but, baby, if you’re wondering what got my tongue wagging tonight, and why i called out of the blue--it wasn’t the logo, it wasn’t to ask how you were doing, and, i’m sorry, it wasn’t your upcoming birthday.

it’s because in less than 12 hours i’ll be finding out whether a nerve in my head has to be frozen with “long-lasting aneasthetics” or “cut with a saw.” it’s because, though i said “no, thanks,” i needed to hear you ask if i wanted you beside me at the hospital. it’s because i knew you’d offer without knowing i’d say no. it’s because you thrill me, even when i’m thinking horrible thoughts.

so this letter is to thank you for being predictable when i need you to be and unpredictable when i don’t.

wish me luck. i’ll call you when i know.

love,

d.