Fortuitous Fortune

I was up late last night, heady from both bar beers and good conversation on Gchat. Then the strangest thing had happened: Poet, my boyfriend from college who left me for the great city of Baltimore, pinged me on Facebook.

I hadn't heard from Poet in two years, since we had this awkward as hell coffee after I left S. I was in such a bad head space and Poet had transformed into someone I no longer knew. I didn't expect to ever hear from him again.

Hey you. Shouldn't you be in bed?

I eyed the screen suspiciously. No way. The same day I mention him, here he is? I was so disrupted by the contact that I didn't respond.

I e-mailed him back today. We had short exchange. I told him his contact was serendipitous because I had just thought of him.

Really? No way...Why?

I was writing a piece about when we graduated from school. I was with you then.

True, indeed. You drove a manual pick-up truck. With your husky. For what are you writing? Journal, blog, memoir?

Blog.

He knows about another incarnation of a blog, but he doesn't know about this one. But Poet is intimate with my writing and my writing style. We were in the same undergraduate writing program and we'd stay up late and read each other poetry and help each other get unstuck in our short stories. He'd audit my classes because he was interested in what I was learning that he wasn't. We'd meet our professors for drinks after class and debate theory in writing. Poet had moved on to great things: grad school at Johns Hopkins, a fellowship at Harvard. I see his name appear every now and then. I've even seen poems he'd written me published in books.

As for me, I'm writing about a dick in my mouth.

I'm a little afraid of what you might have written! he responded.

Actually, you were a periphery character, so nothing bad! It was very matter of fact.

Whew. That's a relief. I know I'll end up as "Jerk Face" on someone's blog before it's all over.

He asked about this book. It must have been the last time we'd spoken. He asked if I was proud of what I had written and whether I was content with the company of writers that appeared beside me.

I expressed to him my feelings on the contribution: I could have done better.

I've always liked your [previous] blog. You have a voice, which is a big part of the battle. Of course, what that really means is that you have character, which is pretty rare these days. I'm happy you're still doing some writing.

My heart swelled. Not because of this truck-driving, bourbon-swilling, tobacco-dipping man I used to love, but because there are people who still believe in me.