Out of everything he said, this is what was most important:
I am sorry that I have broken your sense of trust.
Broken not in that it is gone, but rather that it is tweaked for the worst; sense of trust and not just trust in that it is my barometer that is changed for the worse but not hijacked completely. It’s there; it will always be there, but for now at least, it’s fucked up beyond easy repair. What I’m not sure of is which is worse.
I want to say that I’ve grown from this, and perhaps I have. But in ugly reality, I’m not sure if this is a change that I wanted to happen in myself. I’m not even sure if this is a change that needed to happen. I can’t say it’s a change for the better. Growth isn’t always for the better: a tree can grow crooked and harden just so. What I can do — should do — is to not let this affect me.
I’ve not done this before, but I’ve done things like it before. I know myself enough to know it gets better. I’m experienced enough to have seen in myself resilience, seen it in the books and the ages. In a twisted way, I’m glad this was in New York. What better city than the city of lights to feel alone, and alienated, and truly, deeply sad on a warm summer night with beautifully ambivalent strangers glancing once, but not twice, at our still, still figures: four feet planted solidly in a row on the concrete, four elbows on four knees, four hands holding two heads, but just one fading shadow of tears, distinguishable from the rain only for it’s slight darkness; a rueful dimple of the night.