Roberto Santaguida

Jules
09.08–10.16.2021

It was three years ago, on a Friday. Our meetings always fell on either Friday or Wednesday. I remember the garish sunset outside the conference room that no one was paying attention to. The last donut hole, in its box, that no one wanted. The commercial coffee urn, still on but empty. The corrupted loading screen, from a video game console that rhymes with bee, endlessly looping in the recreation room. Yes, it was definitely a Friday.

It was my second time there. On the first occasion we didn’t speak. Jules and I. We both studied our hands in silence. We shuffled around the room and kicked invisible stones with a contemplative glaze over our eyes. I assumed he didn’t want to be there. I assumed that he assumed that I didn’t either. Five more sessions were scheduled.

On that day, I asked Jules twelve questions. This was his response to Question 7.