Architecture
I hope we get a chance to see Trinity Church. It launched H.H. Richardson's career as an architect and it is one of my favorite buildings. You can always tell one of his buildings. They look medieval. He uses massive blocks of stone, often with multi-colored patterns in the details, like chevrons or checkerboards. They even named the style after him: Richardsonian Romanesque.

Although sunny, the day is frigid, with a constant gust of sharp wind. We are wearing our long underwear and we walk blocks in the cold to Copley Plaza, where Trinity Church is located. Inside, through towering doors with wrought-iron handles, it is a different world. Banks of steam radiators glow quiet heat beneath the twilight of intricate saints stained in deepest violet, ruby and emerald glass.

We hear nothing but the quiet creak of antique wood. Is it my imagination? or in the air I see a faint mist as if the priests who have finished dispensing their incense have just a moment before shuffled quietly out behind a hidden door.

Theater
I don't think my friend noticed this.

When the lights came up and as the actors, frozen a second before, launched into their first lines, one of the actors' eyes strayed and he looked at me. It was only for a split-second, but it threw me. It was not an empty glaze -- he had seen me, he had found me. Was I part of the play or he a part of the outside world?

It was disconcerting.

We were in the second row, the stage surrounded on all four sides in a small diagonal by no more than fifteen seats. The play, the winner of several 'best new' awards, was about mental illness but was meant, it seemed, to raise questions about power and control within the vague confines of what defines mental stability.

There was plenty of heady dialogue. But once you figured it out, it became predictable. Of course the two psychologists disagree in a classic power struggle; of course we question what defines 'normal'; of course the patient helpless in the system reverses and becomes at one point the one in charge over his two bickering psychologists.

At the intermission, I overhear the stage manager speaking to a couple in the lobby.

"We asked two psychologists to read the play before we staged it," he is saying. "They were appalled. They felt it was unprofessional, unrealistic and an unethical portrayal."

After the intermission, the already small audience is smaller.

"I think there are two super-models sitting across from us," I tell my friend. But they are among those who don't return after the intermission so we can't tell for sure.

"And what about that guy in the first row? Doesn't he look like a government official or something?" My friend doesn't recognize him. "Of course you do. You know, the guy who speaks on behalf of the french government or something."

No...?

A Conversation
Do you think this sweater looks ok on me? It doesn't make me look fat, right? I bought it in Coral Gables, after I dropped you at the airport. It was in this store where everything is from Spain. And the clothes were gorgeous. I mean, why buy Ralph Lauren when you can buy Adolpho Dominguez. But I mean, it's 75 degrees outside and they're selling merino wool sweaters. In Florida! No wonder it was marked off 70%. I still paid the most ever for a sweater - it came to $90. That's like a $300 sweater. Look, do you see? It has this hood, what do you think of that? And these little buttons? I can wear it zipped up or unzipped. See? Look how sleek the zipper works. Are you sure it looks OK on me?

Movie Night
Two of my best friends are emigrating. They began the process four years ago and they've progressed through the paperwork -- references, exams, medical records, employer sponsorships. They've bought a house in British Columbia. A month or so ago they heard they had passed through to the final process and that acceptance would be 'any day now.'

I made the trip to spend one last time with them before they left. We watch movies and drink. Black Cobra, a 1980s blaxploitation film. Tommy with Roger Daltry and The Who, Lisztomania, made the same year as Tommy and by the same folks, also including Roger Daltry, only glam rock-ier.

Since I saw them last, they've sold their rentals and dyed their hair. "What shall we drink?" they want to know, and I say You have your choice: I've brought wine and gin and beer. We end up drinking it all.

"What's the way to make a Gimlet?" I want to know, "I thought it was 3 parts Gin to 2 parts Rose's Limewater," and we look on-line for recipes. It is unclear. It can be 2 to 1, or 5 to 2. We settle on 4 to 2, and I am comfortably numb as Ann Margret wallows in baked beans and sudsy detergent.

My one friend says: "There is no such thing as people who choose to believe in God. There's people who just believe."

"But what about people who question God and then still believe," I say. "Don't they choose to believe? Isn't that what they call Faith?"

"'Belief.''Faith.' Is there a difference? I don't see any."

"I'll have to think about that one," I say.

With My Ex
My Ex takes me to a new club, and by 'new' that means it's new for me. It's been open for about two or so years now; it's big draw is that it's smoke-free. We go on an off night. There are only about five people total in the place.

"I was sitting at the table with my brother and my mother goes, 'you believe in GOd, right? Right? Don't ya? You do believe in God, huh?' and finally my brother goes, 'yeah, I guess so,' and I'm glad she didn't ask me because I would have said 'I don't know.' And I was thinking about it and I realized I didn't believe in God. But then, after a few days, I was so depressed about it that I decided I believed in God after all. Because then I wasn't so depressed."

The bartender, a guy who looks like he's barely fifteen, interrupts, "Are you guys here for karoake? C'mon do it! It'll be so much fun!"

My Ex takes up the selection book. "No! You can NOT be serious!"

"Oh c'mon, it'll be fun. There's no one here. We'll do something by.... by.... here! Let's do this one as a duet!" and he scribbles down something and runs off.

He's returning when the DJ announces, like a circus barker: "And now. Hugshyhermit and JD will sing 'People.' By Barbra Streisand."

AAUGH!!!!!!!

The colors start running across the lyrics on the screen.

"You're singing off key!" he hisses at me.
"You're singing off key!" I hiss back.

In the end, our rendition sounds a bit like Sinatra. (So the bartender says.)

"You hogged all the attention," my Ex says.

(It's just like when we dated.)