The old salad girl, skating partner, she texts me. Her boyfriend, 43, has had a heart-attack. In the hospital for a couple of days, she doesn't understand, he never smoked, drank, never lived, really...
I get it. He is, was, still is, the classic "Type A". A miser, counting every penny, she'd explain to me how they'd divide all the bills every month and split them up the middle, to the penny, this, despite the fact that he was earning double what she earned. How he'd demanded she pay for half of the new car, when he needed a new car, and she doesn't drive, but on weekends they go to malls and things. About how he wasn't poor, owned houses in Milan, South of Italy, Canada even, only, well, money was always tight with him. He took her for dinner on her birthday, using the shared credit card, they'd both be paying for that one...
It's a fucked up relationship, I don't get it, not at all, not a bit, but, hey, it works for them, he didn't want her to come to the hospital to visit him, she'd have to spend money on a cab, so the people at work were raising money to pay for her cab. I gave her a ride, wished her, him well, dropped her off.
Breathe. Get to Nelson. Quit smoking. Run, a mile, then 2, 3, 5 miles a day. Meditate. Quit drinking. Quit coffee. Meditate. Everywhere there are the signs, warnings, time is running out...