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an
all new installment!
Saturday Night Serial
justin and delilah: a posted,
post-modern romance of sorts
__________________________
By
Delilah Hornsby
From:
Delilah Hornsby [e-mail address
witheld]
To: Justin Shortway [e-mail address
witheld]
Sent: Saturday, August 7, 1999 6:51 PM
Subject: Do you have to let it linger?
J,
I found myself
lingering at Café Velli over brunch, (I’m
not always at a café … I know that’s
what you’re wondering,) and I was thinking
about the night we ate Belgian fries on the steps
of that church in the East Village. I remember
that night sucking. We sucked then. The world, to
me, sucked then. To quote the Grateful Dead,
which please don’t tell anyone I’m
doing, especially my mother, "What a long
strange trip it’s been" from the steps
of that church.
I invented a
new category: The Lingerers. You know, the people
in your life that you know aren’t going
anywhere. (Family members need not apply.) For
instance, you are a Lingerer in my life. No
matter what I know we’ll always be some
version of friends. You may very well be the
captain of my team of Lingerers, or at least MVP.
Kylie got here
safe and sound. Her flight was late arriving
allowing me to read the entire article in People
about the auction of Marilyn Monroe’s
personal possessions. (Marilyn is a Lingerer, but
in a totally different way—I’m sure I
don’t have to explain celebrity Lingering.)
This auction is the saddest thing in the world to
me—one of the largest global legends to date
and no one left behind to cherish her wedding
band, or her recipes, or her San Francisco cable
car ashtray. Even Kylie, the most unsentimental
person on this planet, would want at least my
souvenir plate from Harry’s Bar Venice or my
first driver’s license. This merely confirms
for me that we all die alone— desperately
alone. Our spirits lingering alone. Peppy
thoughts!
Marilyn was
quoted as saying that she, "loved flowers,
but didn’t like bouquets because they
died." At the deli today I talked myself out
of buying a bouquet because she’s kinda
right. I mean why bring something into to your
home to watch it die? Why voluntarily witness
hydrangea wilt and fade and wrinkle; all of them
so close to each other, yet each one impossibly
alone. Or possibly they die as a team—you
know, like a suicide pact. Or maybe they all die
because one of them started it. Who the fuck
knows?
It’s
really good to see my sister. Even though
she’s impossibly 18, we know how to have a
good time together. I think I have far too much
planned for her visit. I am taking her shopping
in NoLita, to Shakespeare in the park, and for a
spa day at Frederic Fekkai. Tonight we dine at El
Faro and dessert at the Magnolia Bakery. I better
dash.…
Signed, D
P.S. Linger
on!
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