Nine Twelve

How many hotel rooms have I slept in over the past decade?

And I couldn’t spend a night, or a part thereof, in a borough other than Manhattan tonight?

I practically live here. It’s not that I’m tired—we all are this week. Why?

Because 9-11 sucks for everyone. Let alone those who work but a mile from ground zero. And all we do is imagine the hell it must be for those closer than us. How many friends did you lose that gorgeous, sunny morning?

I have a whole fucking series of stories to tell pivoted around those frozen moments that still hold keys to the future.

Maybe that’s the answer to the question. Too many vacant hotel nights leave one jaded to the possibilities of a sudden quiet dark. Or the loud dark, as the Lower East Side would be tonight, even in the rain.

All I had to do was go out for a drink. But I was needed on set, couldn’t go wander. Why didn’t I invite her here?

I felt the sensation of dust settling. Finally. After breathing it in for 7 years.

Forget that I’ve been up at 5 AM for the past 3 days, forget that I’ve barely made it back to RB by 11PM any night this week. Forget that I tried to go to bed before 1 AM last night, but made the mistake of keeping the tele on. The channels replayed 9-11 as it happened.

Reliving mourning is no way to go through the night.

I wanted to again meet RR, but not be a stranger to my bed.

But I can’t have it all my way.

I’m in Manhattan. She’s a 10 minute walk and a 15 minute subway ride away. 25 minutes at most.

I want to put it all together for her—she’s pretty, cool, and pretty cool. But I feel a million miles away. Even with WiFi.