No. 2

Yesterday was fantastic. I stood up-close with Mark Rothko's, Picasso's, Matisse's, Jasper John's, and even that bastard Pollock. (Which I might add were better in person and I hate him less now) I spent the afternoon in New York's Museum of Modern Art. I spent the evening lounging in Central Park. Then Times Square, and to round it off: a trip up the Empire State building. Not bad for a guy that had never been more northeast than Maryland.
It's the moments directly after these that hurt. There's a profound loneliness that burns.

There's no Alison to share them with.

I bought her a new phone a few weeks before she passed. It's one of those Music/Photo/GPS/Web touch-phones and I thought she'd like it. She used it maybe three times. But it's the phone I kept, and for a reason I couldn't have anticipated:
It's lacks the number 2.
For years when cool things happened, my index finger pushed "2". When I thought of something that I didn't want to forget, "2". When she crossed my mind and I thought I'd tell her I love her, "2". For any questions, press and hold "2".
Anytime I missed her, press and hold "2".
Speed dials on the new phone are names lined up. Of course, hers is not in it's current top-of-the-list position, but emotionally I can handle that better than my Pavlovian behavioral training, held singularly in the number 2.