Fingerless Gloves

What was that I said about expensive dreams?

There's a girl named Milly who's spent the last couple months hiding out in a dark cave. Recently she's taken to knitting fingers for otherwise fingerless gloves, something I enjoy watching her do, sitting across the low table from her in the window of the tea house, sipping coffee and tapping away at the keys.

She's a tough cat, Milly. I speculated sometime back that she'd lost a bet with the devil and thus ended up having to spend time with the likes of me. I haven't always made it easy. I guess last night I finally made it harder than she could bear.

Which in an unexpected way proves my point, I suppose. I'm selfish and, when I write, often thoughtless, certainly solipsistic. Whether or not the thought even crossed my mind -- "This is going to hurt" -- it had no bearing on what I wrote or how I presented it. And ultimately it can't. This is my job, and there's only one way to do it right.

So, Milly, if you're out there and you read this, I'm sorry it hurt, sorry I made it hurt.

But I'm not going to lie to you: I'm going to do it again. And again and again and again.

It's the thing I do.

And if I apologize for that, I might as well go get a real job, then sit around waiting to die.