Guiliano, the waiter called, his English is as bad or worse than I remembered. He was able to say I was beautiful and had a nice name and that Sunday afternoon would be a good time to meet. He sounded so shy and mentioned in Brazil women don't like to call men, they liked to be called or maybe he thought that was an American custom. Not sure. He said he was 34, which surprised me, because he looked so young. Maybe he meant 24 or something entirely unrelated and I just couldn't understand. He's been in the U.S. eight months.
No date tonight - met a friend, saw a movie, You Kill Me, which was a disappointment, Ben Kingsley, Tea Leoni and Owen Wilson, acting was ok, story was kind of off. Movie didn't flow. The friend is actually a former beau, but so much time has passed and he's changed so much, I hardly believe him to be the same man, the one that drew me in days following the shake-up of New York, September 11, 2001. I remember the night we met and the months following, me and the entire city took a hit and needed a salve, and he was supposed to be that for me, but wasn't. He caused more pain, further scars and since he had so many of his own, I have long since forgiven him. And now, when we meet, see a movie, have dinner afterwards, I realize I never really understood him and saw only what I wanted to see and what I needed from him. I wanted someone who couldn't love me, wouldn't love me, hardly liked me at all. And he did all three, and I never thanked him.