THE PUBLIC SHELF

Open when you feel alone

You're not. I know the apartment is saying otherwise right now, but the apartment is wrong.

Right this minute, somewhere, I am probably burning toast and thinking about you. That's not a nice thing people say. That's a fact. You cross my mind about six times a day, usually when I see something you'd make fun of.

Here's a secret. The year after college, when I moved to Chicago and didn't know a single person, I used to go to the laundromat on Fullerton on Sunday nights even when I had nothing to wash. I'd bring a book and sit in the plastic chairs and listen to people's dryers and their phone calls and their kids, and it was the only time all week I didn't feel like a ghost. I never told anyone that. I was embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed anymore. I think it was smart.

So tonight, go be near some noise. A coffee shop, a library, a grocery store at nine. You don't have to talk to anyone. Just let the world remind you it's full of people, and you're one of them.

Then call me. Let it ring. I'll pick up.

Andre

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