Monday, February 14, 2005

Dear Valentine,

Sitting in a coffee franchise, drinking water because I am already caffeinated. Killing time until my noon business lunch, which hopefully will not include business talk at all. The barista here is nice—he didn’t make me pay to enjoy the sunshine at this corner table. And for Beverly Hills, that is a rare treat.

In my suit I fit right in, but they don’t know that my 3-day bed head smells of smoke and bars and a comedy club where Chris Rock stopped in to practice his Oscar routine. For West Hollywood, I guess it is a common occurrence to be graced with celebrity. But after paying a measly $17 cover, I was thrilled. Cheap thrills baby, that’s what I like.

I really feel like calling you lately. Probably to tell you all the little meaningless details of my everyday. And to tell you that I keep dreaming of you coming home early, catching you waiting for my surprised gaze and amazed grin. I miss slowly wandering with you through crowded market stalls in search of fresh bread. I miss those rare moments when I could reach inside of you and pull out exactly what I came to you longing for.

I miss you, Valentine.