How to say? How to acknowledge? Privacy means privacy, and thankfully I'm notable for being able to state the obvious in words that make things not so, so perhaps this is the best way to break through a multiple-month logjam of silence and say what needs saying.(Inscrutable? Sorry; this is a private message posted semi-publicly.)

There is no 'me and you,' and never has been; this funny friendship has meant many things over the years, most unspoken and unacknowledged, but there for both of us. Easter brought you back to me, reminded me of why I have Life A here in Huntsville and Life B in Atlanta, reminded me of why I think the drive is worth it and why I'm unlikely ever to have a life, singular, in one place or the other.

He came back toward me, with an intentness of purpose that told me what I needed to know, even before he said it:"It's just after midnight. Happy birthday."

At the end of the night, past the music and the conversation, Chris and I pulled out the sofa bed for him. As we did, the random shuffle served up Diana Krall's take on Joni Mitchell and I realized with a sudden hitch of breath that this little throwaway moment would be one that I remembered. She whispered her way through 'A Case Of You' while we untangled a purring, bright-eyed Tenzing from the sheets we wanted to place on the sofa bed.

When we drove by, it was tantalizing. "Right over there, over that wall, there's the beach," Gareth said. It was dark, and all I could see was a vast expanse of nothing that might, or might not, have held shifting shimmers of reflected light from the streetlights around us.

Gareth gunned it, and we were gone. The water would have to wait for the next morning.

Somewhere, in the Official Book Of Personal Websites, there is an admonition about never creating posts for an audience of one. "The readership," it bemoans, "think of the readership!" The OBPW (a righteous tome inwardly certain of its correctness and self-worth, very British in that regard) goes on to decry those who would veil the true nature of a public piece of writing behind anonymizing pronouns, because if writing is made available online, it should be as comprehensible as it is physically accessible.

Hogwash. I've been creaking around this domain for six years now, and while the OBPW makes a fantastic stepstool in my kitchen, it's of little other practical use to me. I keep trying to run off all but the most patient of you lot; what's one more post in that vein?

If this post is impenetrable to you, then worry not and read on; it's not for you, but you're welcome to tag along for the ride.

* * * * *

After nearly eight years of living here, it's rare now that I feel like a fish out of water, but there's one store left in this town that makes me self-conscious every time I enter it.

I heard that. You, you, and especially you, you dirty-minded little thing—I'll see you after class. Not everything in my life is about that.

Despite everything that's said on television and in those alluring ethnic cookbooks with their come-hither-and-eat-me covers, I've been wondering if I'm the only gaijin hitting up the pan-Oriental markets this side of the Mason-Dixon line. If the stunned and frankly nosy looks of the shopkeepers are any indication, my hair and eye color are either setting off warning bells or I've suddenly started looking like a shoplifter.

It was one of Those Mornings™, the kind that you know are going to find you on one of those days when you aren't looking; the kind that, once fate decrees is yours, is inescapable.I left fifteen minutes earlier than I believed I needed to, but as I crossed the city to reach our compact little downtown, I realized it wasn't going to be enough. Worry caused me to push the accelerator a fraction of an inch closer to the floor before I realized something so odd and so silly that it made me laugh out loud:

What were they going to do to punish me for being late, put me on a jury?

As I made my way through downtown, carefully following the directions to reach the fabled Free Juror Parking, I called the courthouse and apologized. "I'm stuck in traffic," I said, "but I didn't want you to think that I was skipping out on jury duty."

The voice on the other end of the phone chuckled and told me to drive safely.