> tapioca world tour

I woke up to find C. sleeping on the couch. When you haven’t seen someone in almost seven years, it’s kind of shocking to discover them one morning passed out in your living room.

My infamous weakness of taking everything too seriously combined with my ridiculous photographic memory results, usually, in situations where I assume other people remember everything too, and that the last exchange I had with them, even if it was six or seven years ago, is as clear in their memory as if it had happened yesterday. Alas, this isn’t always the case. With some people it is: with some people, years and years pass, and then you see them again, and it’s like no time has passed at all, and you talk about the last time you were together as if it were a few hours ago. I know a few people like that. But then there’s blokes like C., friends of friends, someone you never knew very closely to begin with. And I’m caught, wanting to say hey, remember when we last talked, and we were sitting in that pub, and you said ___ to me and I said ___ and then we both moved away and stuff? And remember how the bar smelled, and how your apartment was always crowded, and the way you’d kiss all the girls on their cheeks as you were coming and going? I remember that.

But I didn’t say it, because I know I’m ridiculous and I remember too much of insignificant events and practically nothing of anything significant.

The past three nights the sky has been glowing an eerie grey-purple. It’s as if a ball game is going on at Fenway and they’ve turned the flood lights on in the smog, but no flood lights are on, it’s just February now and the sky is weird. “Look out the window,” I told the kids. “See how the everything looks so bright? The sky only looks like that in Boston. This is a neat city.”