To Robin,

We should be in my bedroom in Denver. Me on the floor near the record player, playing you my favorite songs, wondering if you really do like it as much as me. You on my mattress typing away at your latest assignment from The Denver Post, The Onion, The Advocate, or any other one that was lucky enough to score your skills. I’m drawing a page for something.

We should be out at one of our bookstores, drinking our coffee reading (only parts) of books and magazines that we’ve chosen after a quick over view of each shelf from our favorite sections. You laugh and show me a page. “this coffee is bitter.”

We ought to be walking around our city, dodging the one-eyed homeless man who might be on our trail. I’m talking to you about what the editor of that crappy local arts magazine told me about my cartoons. You agree that that magazine sucks anyway.

We could be driving to Lakewood to find you one of those dresses you saw in that old issue of Sassy magazine from 1995. We’d listen to that album we bought weeks ago to listen to on our way up to Evergreen. That one album! That one we both secretly like because we’d listened to it as we both were growing up. Separated, in different states even!

We could be, even though we shouldn’t be at that show in that awful hipster bar on Broadway. The music would be way too loud for me. The people would make you and I uncomfortable in their coolness. We’d probably leave after 20 minutes. We only went because your friend said she’d be there.

Oh Robin, “When you take it away, do it slowly, like I’m dying in my sleep and not in my life.”

When you get better, We’ll continue on our non-adventures.

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