The day after the bad day.
Early morning rising to go do TV chatter. Back to help Deig fix herself a tuna sandwich and play a quick fix of Maze singing about “The Look in Your Eye,” dash down Peachtree Street. Kiss Deig good-bye at the school door, dash over to the bus stop. Ride down the rest of Peachtree, hop off in front of the doughnut shop, grab a paper to see what Reagan and Haig are up to, ease into my office, close the door. Sigh. It’s only eight-thirty. I’ve had two hours of sleep, several buckets of tears and am trying to disguise both facts with a little blue eye shadow and more attention to my smile.
Sorry doesn’t begin to say how afraid I am that nothing will be the same between us after all the confusion. There is nothing to be said or done to make that go any way but how it goes, and my speech about if it gets too weird being with me should probably have a new chorus or something. Promise you will always tell me how you really feel and don’t make me guess. I just wanna know . . .