Dear Rob,


Every so often you still pop into my head. What's it been now, like, four years? Can you believe it's been that long since we shared that stupid apartment?! It still amazes me to no end that you and I became so close so fast; it was like I opened the paper, called you, showed up to look at the place and found a new best friend in the process. You were a godsend. Even though things worked out the way they did and we ended up refugees, I still think that.

Those nights while we lived together were hard. Once the sun went down it was like I was on a perma-bender, all strung out on coke and martinis and blacking out all over Manhattan. But you never judged me and you stuck by my side, jealous that I could wake up the next morning with no hangover, all sunny and happiness, and laughing because my bra was in the tub and my shoes were flung everywhere. I was a mess at night, but you didn't care.

What I may not have told you when we lived together was that the daytimes were the happiest times I could remember during my entire tenure in New York. I had a place, I was out of my abusive relationship, I had you for a new BFF, we had Alaska, the prettiest dog in the city, and we had each other. My favorite memories of living there are with you, taking Alaska to the park, traipsing through Bed Bath and Beyond pretending we could afford things and feeling all cool because we were eating at Cosi's. Remember the time we saw The Dell Guy on the corner and laughed at him for acting all Hollywood? Or the time we went to Jones Beach and burned our feet? Sean's car got hit on the way there and we listened to Nelly while speeding on the BQE.... don't think I've forgotten. Remember when Alaska got into all that chocolate and tried to hide it behind your desk? Or how we used to watch music videos on your computer back when that was a "new" thing? I still have that old camera you gave me, I use it a lot. I always think of you when I do, lining up the focus, and I wonder where you are.

I mean, I know where you are in general. You're in California now. You work in a motorcycle shop. But I don't know which one and I don't know where. I don't have your new number. I still have my same one from years ago, but you don't call it. I know you have a friendster profile, but it won't let me send you anything. It's nice to look at your pictures and all, but it's such a tease. I want to ask you how you've been, and tell you everything that's been going on with me. I want to tell you that I'll be in San Francisco within the next few months, so can't we please get together and remember what it was like when we were different people, when I was a drunk and you were a dance instructor and we lived in Queens in an apartment that was too close to the 7 train and had a dog that crapped on the floor but dammit, we cared about each other, even after we were evicted, even after we fled the building through the creepy neighbor's window, even after we lost touch?

I wish I could send a Bat Signal into the night sky over San Francisco, only instead of a bat yours would have a cigarette, a motorcycle and a huskie dog. Would you see it and know it was me?

Are we still friends?

I hope so.

Love,
Jessica