K and I ran into each other on a Friday outside the Music Box five weeks ago. We’d both gone to the matinee of Cronenberg’s The Shrouds. I’d clocked her before the movie, sitting a couple rows back from the front row, my customary spot. I didn’t say hello because I thought we weren’t talking. It had been many years. I figured I’d said or done something to upset her so I wasn’t going to bother her now.
Outside, still shivering from the thunderstorm I’d ridden through to get to the movie, my clothes still damp after two hours of a disappointing movie; she came out of the theater and stopped. We started talking and haven’t stopped since.
Our first date was the following Friday. She invited me to see a show of prisoner kerchief art at the Mexican Museum. Neither of us paid much attention to the stuff on the walls. Couldn’t stop yammering at each other. Lunch afterward was the same. I knew she wanted to be kissed but I waited till the following Friday. The first time I invited her over.
Every Friday since has been like a holy day. We spend the days leading up to them texting and pining away. My week now revolves around our Fridays together.
My whole life is upside down over this but I don’t care.
I wrote about prisoner kerchief art (looked at the art this time) and Bill filmed me sketching at a show. The Newberry Library bought ten Moby Dick drawings for their collection but there’re still some left for you.