I find myself fretting. I keep checking the date. I keep checking back to this time a year ago.
What was I doing? When did we have that conversation about Roman Abramovich and The Filthy Rich Handbook?
Which day did I drop Florentina at her Stuyvesant town apartment before going on to meet Andrew?
“Andrew? I have just dropped Florentina. I’m on my way to you,” I called him as I drove along fourteenth street.
“I’ll go down in a minute and meet you at the corner of Dwayne Reed,” Andrew said.
And there he was, coming around the corner as I pulled up to the curb.
Tall, elegant, his long hair in a pony tail, wearing his favorite, deep, dark red, Nautica sweatshirt. The same sweatshirt he wore the night he jumped from the 10th floor of Bobst. The night, the pre-dawn when he died.
That evening he got in the car. And there we sat, we two. Buses, taxis, cars, people, going past. But the two of us sat together in the car, in our own quiet, safe space.
When he got out of the car and I drove home half an hour later, I felt all warm and tingly inside.
“My darling Andrew,” I thought. “What a sophisticated, warm, wonderful human being he is. He is thriving,” I thought. “He is coming into his own. After the rocky transfer of last January, he is now settled and comfortable.
What lovely company he is.”
When I arrived home I emailed Florentina and Andrew my love.
I remember clearly last year’s September, October, first, second and third of November.
I remember clearly. And I feel like a trapped, doomed, innocent animal. I want to warn Andrew. I want to go and see him like I could have the afternoon before the night when…
I know what’s going to happen. If time didn’t stand in my way I could intervene.
But ethereal, invisible and though existent in this dimension only, time is unmovable, unchangeable and I am terrified of what lies ahead.
Would that we could wake up from this bad dream.