.' I am thinking about the time when my best
friend died, and when I stopped being myself and my life started going to hell.
It happened maybe two or three years ago. The day is very clear in my memory. The
weather was cold and nasty. The monotonous rain made everything outside look gray. I
was at home, waiting for my girlfriend to arrive. I was sitting on the couch drinking hot tea
and feeling warm and cozy. My dog was there too, I remember. We were watching a talk
show, but I was not paying much attention to what was going on. All I cared about was my
girlfriend was coming home and that we would be able to see each other again. She had left
only four weeks earlier, but I had already missed her greatly. We had been friends since the
9th grade. In the beginning we were enemies; we hated each other.
Oh, how we fought!
One time she accused me of taking her purse, knowing what a notorious prankster I was, even
though I had no idea what she was talking about. Later she found her purse in her friends
locker. It seems she had forgotten she had put it there. This turned out to be the first, but
not the last, accident that would occur. What didn't we argue about? After about, four
years, we became the best friends ever. We were perfectly compatible with each other. We
began spending all our time together. We were vital to each other. I came to know each
and every detail about her life as she did about mine. It was the most enduring friendship of
I looked at the clock above my head. Six fifty. She was supposed to arrive at five o'clock.