12 June 2005 (yesterday) (tomorrow)

I called Eric Theriault about a Sunday bbq; Vanessa had completely forgotten about it and, in fact, was still asleep.  I walked up and down Manhattan Ave. and found the mexican restaurant that Alison Solomon had alluded to the night before.  I felt lonely, so I called Beatrice and we met up for drinks at Irene's, a great dive bar around the corner that Eric had tipped me off to.  I talked about the end of the world a little too loudly and started getting looks from the bartender.

I woke up in the middle of the night and drove to the Salonika Diner for some meatloaf and Proust.  A large, drunk, sweet-mannered girl named Katrina approached me to ask me if the mashed potatoes were better than the french fries.  She had just moved to NYC yesterday from upstate; she was living in Borough Park.  As I tried to prolong the conversation, I mentally calculated that I would never see her again.  I drove my truck to Hodgkin St. to prepare it for a mattress pickup on Tuesday.