Memoirous

Like misogyny. This weekend I was out on my bike. Yes, it was hotter than Hades. But I’m about to go on another cycle trip and wanted to make some upgrades to the bike. I was ¾ of the way home and entering the Lakefront Trail on Ardmore. A group of men veered from the sidewalk to walk in front of me. I was going super slow as I had just crossed the intersection. I was right behind them as they walked in front of me so not too far. I said, “There’s a walking path right of the cycleway.” You would have thought I told them to go to hell or go ---- themselves. It was World War 3. As I passed, giving them plenty of space, not yelling ON YOUR LEFT or ringing my bell, but just simply existing next to them, they erupted in Holy Hell. They did not stop calling after me in abusive language; I could hear them even after I turned onto the path and rounded a corner. I took a deep breath. It was weird how immediate and fraught it felt. Then a minute later on the path I was about ...

Hey! I found your notebook the other day. It was a close-bound golden blank book. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to read it; I was looking for a name, address, who I should contact. I read about you feeling sorry about that night, wondering if he might have taken it wrong. If only you hadn’t been so impulsive. Will life always like this?! You had just gotten this cute little notebook and wanted to write down your thoughts in an attempt to sort things out. You feel like if you only had a chance to get things out, spilled on the page things might start to make sense. About that night . . . did he ever call you? I tried to call, but the number was unlisted—as was your email; my message bounced back. You seemed conflicted about that night. He was okay and he might be someone you’d be into. In other ways it was so wrong, like he was your roommate’s boyfriend’s best friend. Awkward. He still hadn’t called. And, it’d been 24 hours. You blamed the drinking (too much), the weed (especiall...