Friday, December 21, 2012

I sent a drawing of Don Quixote to a friend. I had loved the drawing for a long time and it was quite large, and you could see every beautiful hatch mark that covered the knight’s hand like silk. He also had one perfect tear on his face, but that wasn’t as beautiful. It had no hatch mark, it had no design, no nature - just a simple, pure, pleasant oval shape. I wrote a little caption on the drawing and it read: “I like his hand, but not his tear.” I liked the sound of that, and even considered sending the caption without the drawing. What hand? What tear? she would ask. But I didn’t do that. I sent the drawing without the caption instead, and hoped she would decide to say something to it. She did: but it was more about where Don Quixote found himself crying: was it a stall? was it a jail? was the hay damp and warm? these are the sorts of questions my friend would ask. But why pretend? She’s not my friend at all. I am in love with her. Am I just a hand made of silk, drawing a tear that is less interesting than itself, uncertain of what to do with a pen for you? With a pen, you can do nothing sometimes, but draw friends.

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