I come back from Tuscany. Stumble, even, into the arms of Art Therapist. (We'd better come up with a better name for him. Rob? Robert?) A perfect night, that bleeds into midsummer's day. We drink cider and smoke cigarettes and sit on the rocks by the river Thames. He tells me about his life, about his marriages, his children. He has his eldest son with him this summer, and he is sweet enough to give me "heads up" - I know it's bittersweet... it's great for me as a father, but what about us? It'll make things more difficult. By this, he means, of course, that his place is off-limits, for the time being. He's incredibly straight about the fact that he doesn't know where he is right now. I make some off-colour joke about a third marriage; he doesn't like that, I have pushed too far, I suddenly am painfully aware of where I stand.
In other news, I have been speaking Italian all week in the Italian Riviera, and it has been fabulous. But despite best efforts, I have stabilised at 196 lbs. This is after a week of only eating two meals a day and zero carbohydrates, so I can't begin to dream of what is wrong with me, my body. This body, always too much; always too much for men, my mother, my sister, everyone; but especially me.
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