Lucy. Went out to dinner with Lucy tonight.
Walking to St. Laurent, wearing a suit. My blue silk scarf keeps me warm. I’m stepping in puddles and red-orange leaves, and I can smell the trees in the air. It smells alive.
Lucy’s sitting at a table in Eurodeli, dressed like Jaqueline Onassis, subtle and refined. Oh, Lucinda.
From this little Italian Enclave on the St. Laurent Strip we order Eggplant Parmigiana and pasta and canoli and imported juice that tastes like sucking a blood orange. And we’re talking.
Lucy, she’s always been a bright person, I could remember her even across the water. I feel like she makes me brighter. Just the way I’m writing is different, cause I know she knows the value of writing. I don’t even curse around her. Reminds me of someplace I lived with my parents, where things were polite and made sense. And it feels like me.
Lucy looks in my eyes when she talks. I catch myself cause I haven’t really looked at anyone in a while. Her eyes are brown. And we’re talking about the fun stuff that Cultural Studies is supposed to be about. It reminds me of the value of conversation. It’s actually my favorite thing to do.
and that’s how I remember Lucy. She’s right. Admist this Culture full of values I don’t understand, she’s right. Her fingers are out and I know they are touching life. And life is rough and sharp and it hurts sometimes. And so many people turn away, so many people try to hide. But she doesn’t. Lucy is out there and Lucy is alive.
I walk her to Katherine’s to study. Katherine’s little Daschund is so happy to have guests that it pees.