The Italians

Romy is a really good friend. I cried and felt sorry for myself (and him) until she showed up at work. Quickly, she made sure that I was alright. She gave me drugs and rock & roll (no sex, I'm afraid, but who knows what's to come) and took me to dinner at her father and stepmother's house. His hot, 23-year-old brother was also there and her Italian-American father (who happens to be writing a book in which some of the heroes are descendants of Orthodox Jews from Debrecen, Hungary (don't ask, I tried)) is a sharp, interesting man. Her stepmother, an actress and an ageing beauty, is friendly and worldly, if a little too theatrical and overwrought. The apartment they live in is fabulous; a 3-million-dollar Tribeca top-floor duplex with a roof-terrace three times the size of Natalie's. They bought it 25 years ago it for $80,000, when the place was still a dump. It was so civilized, yet fun; homemade Cosmos to start, melon with Parma ham and luscious ricotta-filled ravioli, followed by Haagen Dazs, varied and interesting conversation, and pure, unadultered enjoyment of Ali G on video. It did me good to be around these people it (mostly successfully) took my mind of what boggles it right now. Romy is really growing on me; despite her straightforward, honest (sometimes harsh) manner she is sensitive and empathetic.

As for the rest - I've listened to all the depressing music on my I-Pod, thought and wrote for a while, but essentially more positive than before. The loss of the opportunity makes me sad though.

Oh, and I discovered something today. Tears stain not only paper but cotton as well. At least, my tears left stains all over my shirt this morning. There really is something new to learn from everything. I'll cherish this.