Jake, it seems the barista and I fell into a ditch. We were having an impossible time getting to Nevada. I was having an easy time of writing to you on into infinity about our stagnant efforts to cross the state line, but while I thought that, in my effort to get to infinity, I was building a new Tower of Babel or something, or being like Icarus, or doing something that, at least, extended up into the sky, I was, in fact, digging a hole into the ground, like if maybe Atlas had been handed a shovel instead of a boulder.
Holes, Jake, as you know, are hard to get out of. You dig down and down and down, and then you realize that, if you want to get back out, you need a ladder. But at least I kind of maybe told the barista I loved her. I told her I loved her in an ambiguous way. In a way that gives me freedom. I told her that when she’d gone deaf, I’d told her I’d loved her, then I’d asked her if, now that she wasn’t deaf anymore, if she wanted me to tell her I loved her again, with the full benefit of premeditation, with the full cooperation of my brain, my heart, and my sexuality too.
“Your call,” she said.