cider on the floor

Hello, readers.

Presently, here in London, the sun’s striking the rain-dropped window and it’s a bit like living in a disco ball.

Last night, I had dinner with eg and vi and spilled some cider on the floor. It was a thing involving how the server explained that you were meant to poor Spanish cider in one of those up and down motions that make you look cool unless you spill it on the floor. I tried it twice. Once, it worked. I got cocky and tried again. It worked less well.

Somehow I ended up telling the story about my first day of kindergarten in which I didn’t make it inside the school. What I remember is sitting on the sidewalk with mom and crying until we went back home. The next day she got me in the door by promising to stay where I could see her in the parking lot. I still remember seeing her out there, drinking from a pepsi bottle, keeping watch on her boy.

I have probably written about this before. But, the thing is, last night, after I finished telling that story, vi asked what I was afraid of and it felt wonderful to be asked. A lot of people aren’t so vocal with their inquisitiveness. Maybe it’s because she’s a fellow writer. Or, maybe, as eg said, it’s a sign of deepening friendship that one feels free to go spelunking into the caverns of each other’s fears.

Possibly a little of both.

Happy Tuesday, readers.

Careful with that cider.