Sunday, 29 June 2003 | The preacher and the nurse

The preacher and the nurse are here. At the moment, the nurse is on the side of my bed next to the wall, and the preacher is sleeping on the floor (at his insistence), on top of layers of foam, sleeping bag, and blankets. My educated guess is that he is already asleep, and that she is still lightly awake.

They arrived on Friday afternoon, slamming into the heat as they emerged from the 1, 9 subway and rolled their suitcases to my office for temporary storage. Since then, we have burrowed through a good percentage of the city's network of underground trains, popping up through the concrete street-level holes to visit the roller skaters (and the rest of) Central Park, a Broadway musical, the post-Gay Pride Parade street fair, the carless artery that divides the Brooklyn Bridge in half, and a handful of restaurants and neighborhoods. We have cooked and talked and watched movies, and, probably more than anything, we have walked. My legs feel strong and wobbly at the same time, both pissed off and grateful. I've been going to bed remarkably early due to sheer exhaustion, and due in part to the schedules of the preacher and the nurse, who long ago embraced society's (and the sun's) suggested waking hours.

The preacher is eager to take in as much as possible; he and their daughter often walk too fast for the nurse, who is eager to take in everything she can from a comfortable spot on a bench. The nurse has congenially given in.

They are easy to be around, which is a lucky thing.