The tales they’ve written to one another of fears, betrayals, the hope for a better day and better love, the conviction that there truly is a one and only for every human on this fuzzy planet, the funny dreams and haunts from the roots of night to the black holes above, buzzing in low octaves. Like galaxy poems. Trees without branches are still trees. And flowers without petals are still flowers, absolument. Those who have been de-hearted are still human; only lost, and mis-serviced. They still fight on, travel away, staying with acquaintances who’ve grown unabashedly fond of them. These fast friends from years ago, perhaps from an old job on Embassy Row before falling in love with the film industry, perhaps a near fatal run-in, human crash (which, to some, is nothing short of serendipitous) in an airport terminal in Zurich, perhaps a hallucinatory meeting at an alternative theatre in the wild woods of Sausalito, perhaps... The possibilities are maddening. Endless. Exciting. Painful in the end? Almost always. Almost.
The sorrow eventually makes room for laughter or consistent self-loathing. Or steady fluid flows of self-deprecation with the occasional giddy pause. And then one morning, while pouring steamed milk into your adorable little cup of coffee, your cat meows and you say something back, supply an answer (or several) to the feline’s question. You actually converse with the pleased snickadoodle! Not as one would with a child. As one would with another tax-despising, taxpaying, Clinton-era-loving colleague. As one would converse with an adult.
Self-deprecating muses for hire. Milly is absolutely convinced she is one of them. Yet she doesn’t mind; she walks onto the wobbly stage, high heels propelling her to the heavens, ruby-tipped fingers full of joy, hot light setting her face aglow, as the world of hands and eyes greets her with the adoration that comes with being in the moment. Temporary, but unconditionally complete.
