The Italian has flown back to the home of balsamico, Elin back to her island, Mom & Dad back to Dixie, and I now get to sit here and enjoy the sound of one hand clapping, my own, at last. Listen… that’s the sound of one minute going by on my mid-century starburst clock. Elin’s visit did wonders for Bob’s spirits, and our cohabitating is going along a little less bumpily. We even went to David Ireland’s Oakland Museum show together, and slipped into old dining habits at La Cote afterward with Dean Smith in Berkeley, sharing our plates and drinks and friends and stories.
I’m not doing much reporting on the wild and fabulous activities filling my every spare moment, but ending my 11 year relationship with Bob is just plain hard, and eclipses any desire to relate my typical fluff. I know it took three years to get to this place, but it actually took three years of constant avoidance. Now I have to deal with it. I adore our life together, our rhythms and interests, and am having a really hard time watching it all disappear. I’m going to be a drag for a while, I warn you, and don’t mind if I moan about Bob-this or Bob-that, but I am the sad Carlotta.
And everybody I know is getting married.
I will have a fabulous divorce party sometime in June or July, after I get my new house together, okay?