Yesterday, Fernanda turned 29. Funny, how long I've known her--or anyone else, really. I didn't think it was possible. I didn't have the attention span for anything but books. Sleep. Read. Sleep. Read. That was when I was eighteen, reclusive, agoraphobic.

People came and went; they became archetypes, shadowy figures wavering across the landscape of a life lived like a dream, the girl become a woman. These shadows were not-me, not-Phil, and thus indistinguishable from the girl, separated by a tenuous hyphen, nebulous part of this who-is-Phil fog.

And as I aged, the shadows became no longer, revealing definite shapes and distinct voices: Rini's sudden giggle during a story she-told, Niva's voluptuous purr when she answers her phone, Daniel's gravel sliding slowly into ear-hollows. Each loved for gestures distinct from the other.

...

Now, I have fallen into the unremarkable big-sofa comfort of friends who call or e-mail often: I love you. I love you. What a wonder before, I love you, what a wonder that I could say it and mean it--and now? Yes, I take it/ I love you/ for granted, pleading, I'm busy. I'm tried, I have no time or space enough to return the strength of this emotion you offer me. And then, when it is nearly gone--or seems departed--I long, and long hard, wondering how it went away at all...

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