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I was standing on a street corner waiting for the light to change, when I saw what I thought was a young, pretty female coworker standing on the opposite corner wearing skin-tight running clothes. I was wearing my glasses at the time. They have a horribly out of date prescription and tiny cracks in the lenses, so my vision is awful while wearing them. To add to it, we hadn’t been working together very long, so I wasn’t entirely certain it was her.

After she nervously raised a hand to wave, I suddenly realized two things: first, she was indeed my coworker, and second, that I’d been staring at her very intently for the entire duration of the light while trying determine if I knew her. She took off running again the instant the light changed, giving me no chance to explain myself.

She has pointedly avoided eye contact and elevators with me since then.

A girl at Starbucks yesterday was dressed as Strawberry Shortcake.  Not in a good way.  Imagine if you’d taken the time to create a Strawberry Shortcake outfit, but instead of being cute and innocent, you decided to not eat for several days and slink against a wall while being extremely uncomfortable being stared at.

You wore a Strawberry Shortcake outfit to Starbucks, on a Thursday, at nine in the morning.  People are going to stare at you.  Accept this.

It’s worth pointing out that there’s an art school a block away from this Starbucks.

In a barely related matter, I went to a fashion show last night along with some friends.  It’s easily one of the last things I ever thought I would find myself doing.  One of the baristas at said Starbucks is a fashion designer and had a portion of the show.  I didn’t have anything else to do, and I’d never been to one, so… why not.

The first two designers were unimpressive.  Jeans and a t-shirt with a logo on it?  Seriously?  I could come up with that, and I didn’t know how to match my shirt and pants until I was a junior in high school.  The most interesting thing to come out was basically a t-shirt that reached to just below the crotch with “She’s all that” written on it.

Natasha’s, the Starbucks barista’s, work was different, and not just because I was looking for it.  She had a unifying theme (peacock feathers and blue lipstick) that tied together her entire set.  Hers was a notable improvement over the previous three designers, and one that was obvious enough for a fashion idiot like myself to catch.  I can’t really speak to her dress designs due to the whole fashion idiot thing… and being male… but I was impressed nonetheless.

Natasha’s show was followed immediately by intermission.  I used the opportunity to drink a $8.50 beer, urinate, and jump on the now-unguarded Ducati motorcycle sitting in the lobby.

Only nine thousand dollars? I thought.  Shit, I need to buy one of these!

It’s amazing what alcohol can turn into a good idea.

We missed one complete show, then returned to watch a bit of the end of another.  The theme seemed to have been “Auschwitz.”  Never have I seen so many angry emaciated women in one place before.  None of them looked healthy.  I can only guess that the designer was trying to save on fabric by getting the tiniest models available.

We bailed shortly after, and continued drinking.

I’d just finished reading The Dead Zone by Stephen King. I got up from my bed, which is the only piece of furniture in the apartment comfortable enough for me to read in, and walked into the living room.

Even though I knew Megan had gone to watch movies at a friend’s house a few hours ago, I thought she was sitting at the computer in the nook we use as an office. I felt a shock when I realized the chair was empty. Her half-full water glass was still sitting on the desk, in the same place she’d forgotten another yesterday. I sighed with annoyance and picked it up. If left to sit long enough, one of the cats will stick its head in the glass to drink the rest of the water, then shatter the glass on the floor when it’s done.

I dumped in the kitchen sink, and a sudden wave of tears blinded me. It had nothing to do with the the melancholy ending of the book I’d just finished. The ending is moderately sad, and the main character dies, but I never really identified with him enough to really care.

Very soon, I’m going to see Megan’s shadow hundred ways every day. The ugly pink makeup case hanging from the towel bar that I’ve always hated, missing. Her chaise lounge gone from the living room and replaced with my ugly, worn recliner. Her friendly, funny cat no longer leaning against me, watching her adoringly. No more quiet Sunday breakfasts sitting across from each other at the greasy spoon down the street, where the food is cheap and the coffee is terrible. Even the damned half-empty glasses of water I keep reminding her not to leave out.

She’s moving to Seattle next month.

I sat down at the computer desk and began to cry. The last time I cried hard was when Megan and I “broke up” nearly two years ago. I say “broke up” because our relationship has never become just “friends” or “roommates.” She’s still my best friend. I still kiss her goodbye and give her a backrub when she’s feeling sore. I still ask her how her day was while we make dinner together. We get drunk together and laugh at bad zombie movies.

I don’t think I’m crazy for still thinking of her as my girlfriend. For brevity’s sake, I’ll sometimes refer to her as such with people I don’t know very well, rather than waste time explaining things. “Roommate” is someone you split the rent with, and it doesn’t encompass anything close to how much she means to me. It is, however, the way she introduces me to people. I don’t think she’s noticed that I wince slightly every time she does it. Maybe she has, and that ought to be a clue for me.

The crying became sobbing… and I can’t even remember the last time I did that. I put my head down between my elbows and let my tears drip down my face and onto the desk.

“What am I going to do if I lose her?” I thought desperately.

“You already did, idiot.” An angry part of my mind replied. “A long time ago. You broke up with her, remember? It’s been years. You think she’ll take you back now? Is that even what you want? Would that ever even work?!”

I cried for a few minutes, hoping that she would surprise me by coming home early and seeing me looking like hell. I was equally horrified by the idea.

Does she love me? Do I love her? I don’t know. They’re questions I’ve been afraid to ask, things I’m not sure if I can handle. I do know that the thought of having most of a continent between us is more than I can take.

She moved across the country for me once, leaving behind her friends, family, and job. It’s time that I did the same thing for her. I don’t know if it will work out. But I know I have to try.

If you’ll excuse me, I need to send a few hundred resumés out to the Seattle area.