I can’t write about love anymore. I can’t write about sex anymore. I can’t write about tragedy anymore. I can’t write about God anymore. I don’t know anything. I wish it were Sunday. I wish it were Saturday afternoon. My mother thinks I am going to get married. Sometimes I think that, too. Sometimes I think we really will have a baby. Sometimes I think I don’t know him at all. And whether it’s been 8 years or 4 months or 3 months or I don’t know, I’ve never known him. He didn’t reply to my letter; he didn’t even say he got it. Maybe this is the next sad story in my list of sad stories. I told him I was so desperately sad over the winter, that I thought if I didn’t get out of New York I’d never have another normal, healthy relationship again. And he asked me when I ever had a normal, healthy relationship. He doesn’t know the half of it. He asks me why I don’t trust him and the answer is obvious. We both say we want monogamy, but we are both cheaters. We were cheating most of the times we were together, until now. I remember when we first met, the exact moment, in a class. We spent months wanting one another, knowing it was inevitable. He told me stories about New Zealand when we were supposed to be studying molec and cell. We went on a walk in my first New York snowfall and got soup. I was 18. My life was already falling apart by the time we finally had sex, and I still remember what it felt like, it was the first time I ever really enjoyed it, and I walked across Washington Square the next morning feeling like a completely different person, and in a matter of days I was gone. I never told him I was leaving. He was interrogated by the police. And eight years later, we were lying in bed together on my grandparents’ farm in Georgia, having dated for less that two months, talking about having a baby. And I asked him if he realized that it meant we would be in each other’s lives until we died, that it would be a stronger guarantee of that than marriage. And he said, yes, of course. And I asked him if that scared him and he said no. Just no. Then later he said this probably wasn’t what I imagined when I imagined falling in love and getting married and deciding to have children, that one day I’d be making an agreement with someone, that it wouldn’t be a disaster. And I didn’t say anything, and he rolled over and hugged me. I moved to the West Coast. Because I was never going to have a normal, healthy relationship in New York. And now I am on the West Coast, in beautiful, beautiful, Portland, missing him. Which is just what I said was going to happen, every time I said we shouldn’t do this, that it was the wrong timing, and don’t you understand how much you could hurt me, I asked? The first time, and he said he wasn’t going to hurt me. And he said he wasn’t wasting my time. And he said when he was in Mexico he tried ecstasy for the first time and he hugged a pillow and it was the softest thing he had ever touched in his life, and he just wanted to stay there hugging the pillow for ever, and that that was what it reminded him of, sitting on my couch in New York with me.