My friend drank again. By the time she made it to the emergency room, she was doing a fifth of vodka a day, and had done so for a month, not a good thing for a woman who weighs 125 pounds. Then she fell and fractured her coccyx, and injured an arm, a hip and an ankle. When I saw her today she looked a hundred years old, her beauty a husk of what it was a year ago. I am resigned to losing her.
I am tired of losing people. There have been more than a half-dozen in the last twelve months. Some have died; others have moved away; others still simply got tired of the relationship we had. It’s entirely possible—no, probable—that I accidentally offended a few. One, after an argument carried out by text message, simply wrote, “We’re done here,” and deleted me from her life after two years of working together on a variety of projects.
I write this even as a contract from a publishing company for two of my novels sits on my desk. I have read it but not signed it yet. I am elated that these books that took almost a decade for me to write, have found a home, but this small success simply does not erase the losses.