It’s a cold, clear evening. I cabbed to the meeting, but am walking home. I am in no hurry to get back to the my apartment, that barren land of drab loneliness. Celibacy, it turns out, is a b***h to maintain.
I’m walking west, passing rows of brownstones with front windows lit warmly in holiday cheer. I’m moving very slowly, recalling an article I read about slowing down all your movements to calm yourself. The street is empty so I take each step as if I’m pressing through a wall of sand. I consider heading to Auntie Flora’s but am still a bit wrecked from my last visit. I don’t like all the memories she stirs up about my folks.
It seems to be working, this ridiculously slow pace, because in a brief flat moment in my mind, I realize there was a period of semi-celibacy in my past, immed
