I was there for the famous Bill Hicks speech about the roller coaster. I heard him talk about the eyes of fear and the eyes of love. Twenty years later, I am in my New York apartment that I bought for my latest bestseller. I am looking out into the snowstorm outside, wild flakes like a barrage of gunfire between the towering walls of naked brick. Laura walks into the room, her eyes are tired and I think she cannot bear to see me anymore. I do not blame her. A man does what he does and than he has to live with it.
“I have all my things packed. I’m just,” she does not finish. She is too kind to say these final words.
I nod. She is agile, quick on her feet, as usual. I hear her open and then close the door. I turn back to the window. I cannot see the street down below so I only imagine people rushing by, trying to get out of the snow. I know some of them have nothing to look forward to so they stick around in alleys, waiting for me to walk by. She will be in that street in a second. Will she take the subway or is somebody picking her up?
I look at the old typewriter that I used to write the first story I ever sold. It is about twenty years old.