meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. xiii

When I stopped in Ellensburg, getting the coffee I'd neglected to at Liana's rest stop, the girl at the counter asked me about the notebook. "That's a really neat notebook," she said. "Where'd you get it?"

She'd read it? I thought. I smiled at her. She shied away--my smile must have frightened her. "You know Liana?" I asked. Or exclaimed. The words just came out. The poor girl didn't know what to do. She thought I was crazy.

One day you'll understand, I thought. Or did I say it? She nodded at me and told me to have a nice day. One day, I thought, you'll find a little scrap of paper written by a man, a desperate man, a man who has 'hopes of getting out of here, out of this, out of everything'. It might be here in your gas station. You'll feel like you're intruding. You'll find out that he's living your life, be afraid he doesn't like you, trust you--he's living your life and he's better at it, and you love him for it. Love. You'll feel like you didn't know the meaning of the word before. Because you don't.

"Will that be everything, sir?" Her voice was quaking. I smiled and left. Maybe she could borrow my notebook when I'm done with it.