Two expatriate Californians, two MacBooks, two hopeless tasks. I am at B’s house on Addison writing the scene that never gets written till Friday night, trying to write it sooner by being at B’s house. B is trying to apply for a job, and thinks me being here will help. We’ll see about that.
Sitting in one armchair with my feet on the other makes me remember nights – multiple – sleeping in this arrangement, last year. That must have been at someone’s house, working on some play, but I don’t know which one.
B stacks piles of job applications across the coffee table. I blog.