There was a point last year, or maybe it was the year before last, that I tried to write a short story about being young and brokenhearted. This is as far as I got.
It rained for the first thirteen days that I lived in San Francisco. But it was March and I had come from Chicago where there was only snow for months and so the rain made the move easier somehow. I was put up in a bad hotel in a bad neighborhood for one long week before I accepted the first available apartment I was shown, a dingy studio in Union Square for $1,200 a month. The apartment had dirty blue carpet and four large windows that looked into a parking garage. I can recall lying on that carpet late one night reading a novel that would make me very sad some days later, when a pigeon perched itself on the sill of one of the open windows. I watched that pigeon for quite a while, wondering if it would come inside. When it eventually went away, I got up and closed the window, not for fear that the bird might return and enter, but for fear that I might stay awake waiting.