Hey, before you leave, I was wondering
if you’d sign this copy of your book. It’s
the one I bought before we met. At
A Different Light. Remember? The old
gay bookstore on Hudson Street? It must
have been the late 1980s. Can you believe
we lived in that analog world, with
our Princess phones and accordion-
fold maps and no Amazons except
the river and the rainforest? Anyway,
I’ve always wanted you to sign it, but
once we, you know…it seemed silly.
After a while, I just forgot it
wasn’t inscribed. So, do you mind? You
don’t have to write anything sappy or
profound. But don’t let it be “goodbye,”
either. Look, either you will or you
won’t, it’s no big deal, but I think you
might do that for me at least. No, I’m not
angry. I’m done with angry, really.
But there will still be times I’ll open
that damn book, and your inscription
won’t be there, and it will remind me
of all the time we spent pretending
that we’d follow through—you know,
follow through, all the way to some
kind of….Shit, you know what I mean.
A really good ending. To the story of,
well, us. And if you sign it, then, those
times when I do open it, I might feel
less…forgotten, frankly, if you really want
to know the truth. Because I didn’t realize
that my life with you would end up so…
illegible, I guess. Anyway, now
that you’ve written me off, do you think,
before you go, you could maybe spare
one last flourish of your pen, for me?