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She

She made me a sundae with strawberries.

I call her, quietly weeping in an Urban Outfitters dressing room, polyester mini dresses doing nothing to clothe the despair caused by yet another quasi-relationship biting the dust. She tells me to come back to my apartment, and makes me a strawberry sundae, the most delicious and dear of carbohydrate comforts. And she says it will be okay.

She answers calls made from/about the spectacular failure of a job a few years ago – concern and support and a very sweet “Sarah?” I stand on the corner of 2nd Avenue and Midtown hell, and pour out what soul remains. And she says it will be okay.

She goes to every charity event I’ve produced since we met. She sells tickets by the group. She is the best agent and manager I will ever have, and never pay.

She tells me I’m too good for the last 3 or so guys I’ve dated (#4, I don’t remember your name, so you’ve escaped this round. Congrats.). She does this to all her girlfriends.

She has a cat. This is unconscionable.

She’s asked me at least 6 times in the past hour if I’ve written today. She pushes me to write. About something. Anything. To put words to paper, to push through any self inflicted block. To write to write to write. Thoughts, to life, to type, to live, to write.

So I’m writing. I’m writing because she knows me better than I know myself.

And because she made me a sundae with strawberries.

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