You said you wanted to quit your job. I think, in some ways, quitting would be such a great thing. Your job will not tell you that you are beautiful, but I will. Will your job tell you sad stories about Russian history, about poets who commit suicide after they return from Berlin? Will it tell you all those sad stories? Will it write about you?
Forget buying things to be happy. Forget about working seventy hour weeks. Forget about not returning phone calls. Let’s just go to the Getty or see a movie. I’m not asking you to marry me; hell, I’m not even asking you to be my girlfriend, and I don’t care how old you are. I almost got you though, when you said your sister is five years younger than you, and I asked, “So, how old is your sister?” and you laughed. I am glad you laughed when I said that, and when I sad that, for Halloween, I would go as the guy who looks really young. No costume required.
I need to hear you say something other than, “Well, good luck,” “Well, it was nice talking to you,” “Well, I should go to sleep,” and other meaningless things. Do we not have other things to say?