OK, it’s been a while since I’ve seen 4:12 a.m., and it’s just as awful as I’ve remembered it. I HATE the end of the semester!
Washingtonpost.com is, I guess, doing a little series called “LIFE IS SHORT: Autobiography as Haiku.” This one feels particularly moving to me:
To improve our conversations, I made some suggestions. When he wandered out of the room while I was talking, I commented that it was hard to talk to an empty room. Now he stops dead in his tracks when I talk. After I told him I preferred eye contact, he returns my gaze with deer-in-the-headlights intensity. When I told him responding to remarks was the normal pattern, he began making them — as if prompted by the stage director in his mind. When I test — “Did you hear me?” — he gives it back minus the nuances.
He loves me. He’s trying.
Maybe it’s just that I was thinking about Diane Williams and her super-short stories.