November 5th, 1977

I’ve been cleaning the apartment for hours. Tomorrow is a big day. Guy is coming by. He called me at the office Thursday to tell me he was going to Memphis. His voice was deliberately flirtatious. He said he’d be away until Saturday– but suggested Sunday.

And Gene from Philadelphia is in D.C. visiting friends and is dropping by tomorrow later for drinks– possibly dinner.

And Sonja– in the midst of another dramatic life crisis is supposedly on her way over to spend the night. Her traumas are so chronic and transparently self-caused that my patience and sympathy wane. She wants to borrow money from me. I have none to lend. I’m also slightly annoyed with the thought that Sonja uses me. She only calls me when I can be of some service to her.

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Single people are subjected to so many anxieties that married people are spared. A certain longing which you try to ignore– daily. A sense of absence. The bible says “it is not good that man should be alone.” I think it says that.

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Incredible weather. November– and I am sitting at my kitchen table in a tee shirt (an old white one of Gene’s) with the back door open listening to crickets and hearing the noises of the people across the hallway. Crazy Judy and her son, Ivan and her man, Billy.

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My root canal is over with, I guess. The last visit, yesterday, was supposedly the worst– and it wasn’t that bad.