Maltball and Rand are Dead! or, Thank You, Mr. Stoppard

A Meeting, On Paper.

Plays

• Rock n' Roll
• Spring Awakening
• Hamlet *

* You could have had any other play. You could have pulled out Oedipus Rex. I'd written 5,000 words on the idea that Yorick was Hamlet's true father. You agreed.

Books

• You've read nearly everything I've ever loved
• You love the poets I can't understand
• It was lovely

Ambitions

• Cultural invigoration! (Music, Literature - John Donne! Joan Didion! - Theatre, our own writings...) *
• You said that you've never seen anyone speak like I did when I told you my big plans. I was swimming.

* You could have been a banker. Your father is a banker. I could never be with a banker.

A Lifetime, In My Mind.

We could have done this. I was there. You blamed Tom Stoppard. The washing hummed and you were so careful where you put your hands. We didn't eat because we weren't hungry. Your trousers fit you perfectly. You liked my sundress. There was a book in your pocket. I was in love, down the rabbit hole with you. It was perfect but it was late and your father's friend, the MP, was arriving at five the next morning. We slept together anyway.

Two days later, at a table across from the bar at Starbucks you said goodbye. You'd thought of nothing else for the past two days and you didn't see how it would ever work. This was harder for you then I could imagine, you said. You looked so sad. No doubt you were. Your eyes kept blinking to keep the wet only a glaze. I wouldn't cry in front of you. We hugged outside, it was all very dignified but you wouldn't let go. Your fingers tangled my hair and you whispered "Shit," in my ear. Somebody had to say the truth. Our hearts made us dizzy, but I didn't pull at you. Maltball and Rand are dead.