August 10 2007

Text By Greg Fallis

Her friends tease her. "Always have your nose stuck in a book. It's Friday, come have a drink." She'd rather go back to her apartment, make some comfort food, finish the book. Her friends tease her. "You'll never meet a guy if you don't leave your apartment." She'd like to meet a guy. But the kind of guy you meet in a bar is, well, the kind of guy you meet in a bar. She'd rather go home and read.

His friends tease him. "It's Friday night, come have a drink. You can work on the Great American Novel tomorrow." He wishes he'd never admitted he was trying to write a novel. Everybody in New York was working on a novel. Or a play. Not a screenplay; he wasn't that shallow. His friends tease him. "You'll never get laid if you don't get out from behind your computer." He'd like to get laid. But lately it seemed the effort it took to get laid just wasn't worth it. He'd rather go home and write.

So close. So distant. Two lives lived for the page. But different pages in different books on different subjects in different libraries. So close, so close, so distant.