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03.21.02 - 11:05 p.m. as it turns out i am very afraid of sleeping by myself in the apartment. The knowledge of robins breathing body two rooms away makes everything allright somehow and without her, without someone, i lie awake and watch the doorknob, i drift off sitting straight up in bed and wake up with a crick in my neck. And again, today as every other day. I sat with karlo's guitar, fingers sliding into chords and barrs, slipping into first position, third, seventh, and like every other time i consider giving it another shot. He watches my hands and shakes his head smiling and i ask for lessons again, he steadies me with his eyes and changes the subject, its not something i should take so lightly. He would take me again and part of me knows i could do it again. Part of me knows that if i left work and lived off savings and moved into the music building and gave myself over to it that i could make it, and part of me loses breath thinking about it...the impossibility of that. Once on the stairs, guitars thrown over shoulders on the way to ensemble he told me i could have been really great. The best he's ever had. A chopin nocturne behind us and eyes from him that seemed sad, that seemed resigned to lessons that would never be enough. There was something lost after that, again. And then i remember that the important thing for me, for myself is that we remain friends. Chip couldnt take me anymore. My lack of stamina, resilience, passion. He gave me an ultimatum and i failed. He threatened julliard and i didnt want it anymore and then there was silence in the place of instruction and for three years he begrudged me. There obviously came a point where i wasnt worth his time anymore and my fingers lost their callouses and my ear stopped listening and we wasted each others breath. Karlo asked what happened between chip and i, why i was scared of the guitar, why he was so discouraging and i wondered how things might have been different if i had karlo all along. His patience and wit as opposed to chip who whipped me for eight years until i fell apart, until i couldnt play before anyone without tears and fingers that werent mine. We shared a diet coke and laughed easy, he will come for spaghetti to my gray house and we wont talk about the guitar. HIs wife will tell me about renaissance literature and her phd program and maybe we can get karlo drunk, which i think may be impossible, and i will feel one cool night of forgiveness from the guitar in my closet. � 
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