the sweetest hands in all the world.

sera, lovely thing that she is, bought me caramel apple cider, and i taught her about indian food. that is a lie. i can't really teach people about indian food. i know nothing about it. i would be hopelessly lost were it not for all you can eat buffets. i like to think that i did a better job of teaching her about mango juice, although i'll be the first to admit that the presence of at least one little chocolate person would have helped. we walked everywhere. we saw the merchant of venice, starring a truly breathtaking al pacino as shylock. i wish that i could love this play. i like that it constructs gender as a matter of location. anyone who enters the city is granted a profession and youthful, charming masculinity. all who enter the villa become sudden dandies. but i can't like any of them. i'd cut out the pound of flesh myself. i understand that shylock must suffer in order to be allowed to articulate his suffering, but most of the time it still hurts too much to watch. we went for desert. we shared a brownie sundae. sera had red wine and i had a cappuccino. our waitress praised us both for being very polite; we both had small crushes on her about which we talked louder than perhaps we should have. we talked about jane eyre, too, and associations with ceilings. we walked to the train. she told me about michael. i told her about meghan. and she said that if things needed to wait a bit longer, that they'd keep. i'll talk to meghan. but unrequited love is sexy, as she's been saying. one should always have a few crushes stored away in locked boxes under beds and in drawers. i like her a lot. she is becoming herself beautifully. i am very glad that i get to be a dear friend, however that is to be defined.