After a sleepless night, I headed to the coffee shop before work. Ava was chatty. She wants to talk men and personal lives every time she sees me, and I’ve never felt less like connecting with someone else about my personal life than I do now. I prefer to write down my thoughts. Writing lets me think out what I feel without anyone else influencing me, and that isn’t likely to change. I’m beginning to want to avoid the coffee shop. In a space of ten minutes, Ava has asked me about Ricco, Mark, Chris, and another artist who apparently comes into the gallery sometimes, but hasn’t since I arrived. While I was still there, the client I took to Ricco’s private gallery called my cell phone to see if she could take a relative by to see a work she was thinking of buying. Ava was all over my reaction, which was pure dread, and wanted to know what was wrong. I didn’t tell her. She truly was nothing but friendly, but I don’t even share my worries and concerns with long-term friends.
