Memory got the better of me. The man walked across the living room to put his hands on my shoulders and I stiffened and burst into tears, left him standing in confusion as the door banged shut and I got in the car. The rational part of my brain drove and listened, embarrassed, while I sobbed at full volume.
Got to the library and sat in the car for a minute, suspecting that maybe the Dalai Lama might have done all that differently. Imagined him in his robes and little glasses, bawling into the steering wheel with his eyeliner smearing. It was slow and quiet in the evening at work. I went into the bathroom and made faces in the mirror to see what I looked like crying. Holy Buscemi. Resolved never to cry again without a balaclava.
At night, I hunched over thread and needle, trying to drive away thought with lines of blue stitches. We split a beer and talked. Went to bed and I touched his ear briefly to say that everything was okay. I was worried about falling asleep and seeing it all over again; in my dreams I stayed awake all night, looking for a place to lay down. Exhausting.
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