I think about him in the twilight.
I say to myself, my bleary eyes closing against the distant blue of dawn, that I miss him. The blue is a pastel blue. A sad blue. A blue that is the color of irony, of oblivion. It is a kind of blue that you might find at 11 PM on a Miles Davis track, at 6 PM in someone's pool in a rich house in LA, in a pool of jacaranda petals. In this blue, I tell him (and no one in particular) that I miss him.
Last night we tried to play bridge. We tried to play because our much smarter friends like to pretend that bridge is a respectable game, a game that well-off couples play, in order to offset their competitive edge by inviting a demonstrably lesser set of opponents to fraternize with them. Our friends made silly compliments and served us fruit and cheese, and in the windows of their house we saw the same blue, filtered through a haze of tall bushes. I saw the evening star rise above them. The twilight. Our failure, rendered in filigree, every little shadow played out in the hand.
On the way back home we turned a corner and took a different route home. He let me put my hand into the pocket of his blue denim jacket. This is also blue, faded like a piece of sea glass.
I will see him again tonight, when the world is blue, when the twilight fades and the world grows dim and fuzzy, yet oddly retains its warmth and familiarity. In this blue, I will find him again, smiling as he sips from a cocktail, reminding me to finish the first volume of Proust over a pulled pork supper. The sting of white wine, also tinged blue from the paper lanterns above, the blue shade of twilight on the white linen tablecloth, the blue of the world that never seems too literal, the hasty yet relaxed crawl towards the end of night.
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