Even if you can’t hear me. The words I can’t share with you are choking me. So I’ll write to you. Not to record my actions, but to tell you what’s happening during the undetermined length of your absence. Try to understand how differently we both live. I’m going to try to find the words. I’m not going to lay them down on paper, as they say. It’s a lovely expression, but it’s much too gentle. No, I’m banging out my words. My two index fingers dart over the keyboard vehemently. I type the way I am: like an amateur, too fast, too hard, and often hitting the wrong key. Impetuously, imprecisely, like a beginner, everything I hate about myself. The opposite of you, always levelheaded, organized. You type like a girl Friday in the movies, at top speed, a butt hanging from your mouth casually, without ever looking at your hands, nonchalantly tinkling out your ten-finger ballet. You’ve never written me. You’d rather call. It’s two p.m. where you are, in New York. In your office, you just had a bagel with smoked salmon, and you’re about to tear into your second pack of menthol cigarettes for the day.
What do You think about Mon Amie Américaine (2016)?
