Heart of Glass

I don’t do so well with change. I know nobody does, but I also know that I am worse than most. The proof? I blubbered to the boyfriend for a week following my wombmate’s departure for Japan because the city already felt different without her in it. I wiped away a tear (or two, or three) before she even left because I didn’t want to face these streets without knowing she was somewhere along them, too. The idea of being alone here, in this toowhite second floor apartment, caused me to clutch fistfuls of Kleenex tight in the hopes of stalling the inevitable changes that would (and did) accompany her leave.

And now, I find myself running away from yet another change staring me in the face. It's mid-August, and whether you want to believe it or not, summer is almost over. Sure the season lasts well into September if you want to get technical, but the summer, my summer, of sticky nights and sticky mornings, and pink skies well past 9pm, and copious amounts of sangria consumed during those sticky nights, and I'll Believe in Anything and Age of Consent, and walks down backstreets at 2 am where you stop to pet every cat that slinks past you on its way home, and bacon never tasting so good, will come to an end in four days when I leave for the other side of the country. And sometimes I think perhaps I am not so scared of change as I am summer's biggest fan, but then I remember what greets me in September when I return. The cats will be locked up and the skies will be black as I embark on the scary M of A, all the while keeping my fingers crossed tight for the best.