I usually spend at least part of my Thursdays with Itchy. He's actually the one who told me a long time ago he thought of it like that icky Mitch Albom book, Tuesdays with Morrie. Thursdays instead of Tuesdays. Mikey instead of Morrie. And even though I know he never read it—and I never read it, either—seems like Morrie could not have been other than a crusty old codger who smelled funny. And I'm not quite there yet.

But that's been our routine for probably more than a year. We usually do a little work—Itchy has a little business and I help with the books—and then we have lunch, and then, you know, make some mischief. Whatever comes to mind. That's been the way of things for awhile now.

Lately, though, things have gotten a little frayed. That's how it is with things, though, innit? They start out shiny and new and all, but, you know, you have to expect some fraying. Unfortunately, our Thursdays have ceased to be shiny and new. They may even have become a little crusty. They don't smell yet, though. At least I don't smell 'em. Can old people smell that old people smell?

We talk about it, of course. Itchy's become fond of saying things like, "I'm still the same old Itchy," as if it's my fault and not physics that's to blame for change. In fact, he might as well be singing that old standard "You've Changed":

You've changed
The sparkle in your eyes is gone
Your smile is just a careless yawn
You're breaking my heart
You've changed

You've changed
Your kisses now are so blasé
You're bored with me in every way
I can't understand
You've changed

Yeah, yeah. I guess I could just as easily say, well, "I'm still the same old Scratchy." But that's silly. Of course I've changed. Life has changed me, and death has changed me, and change has changed me. You've changed me. That's how this works.

When I was in college, whenever I would break up with someone (not that I've got anyone to break up with at the moment, so don't anyone flatter themselves thinking so) I would leave them with a copy of the pocket Everyman Library edition of Baudelaire: Poems, with its gorgeous modern translations by Richard Howard. There's a little ribbon sewn into the spine that you use as a bookmark, and (here I'm giving away trade secrets, but never mind) I always discreetly marked "Semper eadem" (sometimes translated as "Always the Same"), a poem that just never failed to sum things up ever so nicely:

'You're like some rock the sea is swallowing —
what is it that brings on these moods of yours?'
Nothing mysterious: the ordinary pain
of being alive. You wouldn't understand,

though it's as obvious as that smile of yours:
an open secret. Nothing ever grows,
once the heart is harvested . . . You ask
too many questions. No more talking now,

my prying ignoramus, no more words,
however sweet your voice. You call it Life,
but Death is what binds us, and by subtler bonds . . .

Come here. The only lie that comforts me
is the refuge of those lashes — let me sink
into the silent fiction of your eyes!

"Like some rock the sea is swallowing!" Gives me goosebumps. "Comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu" is usually translated more literally, but with less resonance—"like the sea on the naked, black rock." But that's the line that got me when I read Richard Howard's version for the first time many years ago. That was the line I recognized. "Like some rock the sea is swallowing." Yes.

(I think Richard Howard's translation—every line of it—is gorgeous. I like Peter Helling's translation of the line "Une douleur très simple et non mystérieuse," too, which he renders, appropriately: "a very simple, unmysterious pain." But the rest of Helling's translation is gobbledygook.)

Anyway, the last time I bothered with this parting gift was over five years ago. That one ended with me standing on the sidewalk, that pocket Baudelaire flung into a puddle at my feet. "And take your stupid book, too!" I love Baudelaire as ever, but I'm not a college kid anymore. Now it's a more or less secret love. Poetry, like prayer, is something to do in private.

My point. I thought of Baudelaire's "Semper eadem" again today, with Itchy. He asked the same question, in essence, as the lover in the poem: "what is it that brings on these moods of yours?" I don't go around quoting poetry in real life, but if I did, this would be the poem. "A very simple, unmysterious pain."

I'm not a Chinese box, either, after all.

Hmm. So we tried a new place for lunch: Bouchee. On Newbury Street. Not bad. Itchy had the sirloin, I had lamb sausages. I prefer pork. Lamb always tastes peculiar. Pork seldom does. Don't ask me why.

On our way back, we were waiting at a light at Commonwealth Ave., and a woman tossed a wrapper out of the passenger side of what I think was a late model Jaguar. This is one thing that never fails to get Itchy going. He saw it and pulled up alongside. I grabbed his arm. "Itchy, let it go." Not a chance.

"'Scuse me!" he hollered over to her. "Um, 'scuse me! I think you dropped something!"

People are never prepared to be called on this. I've seen this happen, like, a hundred times since I've known Itchy. They always do a double take. They're like, this guy can't be for real. But he is.

So she's like, "huh?"

And he's like, "Um, what you just did—tossing that wrapper out on the ground. That's called littering."

I prayed for the light to change.

She didn't know what to say. But her boyfriend did.

Actually, that's what took Itchy by surprise. He doesn't really think before he reacts, especially when he sees someone littering. It's just automatic. And I have to say, he totally walks the walk on this. At least once a week, he goes all up and down the block and picks up litter in the neighborhood. And he's never all like, look at me! I'm picking up litter here! It's automatic, like I said. It's admirable. It is. But some day he's going to get himself messed up going after litterbugs. I worry about him. I do.

So the boyfriend leans over and says, "You're a religious guy. You read the Bible, right?"

I was like, Oh, God, here it comes. It's gonna be one of these Samuel L. Jackson Ezekiel quotes before he blows Itchy's head off. And it's gonna land in my lap. And I just rediscovered these jeans I'd buried in the bottom of a drawer in the dining room hutch of all places. And blood is a bitch to get out of your clothes.

Itchy was clearly caught off guard, himself. He said, "actually, no, I'm not a religious guy. Spiritual, you know. But not religious, exactly."

I added helpfully: "He hasn't read the Bible, but he did just finish The Kite Runner!"

And, to my surprise and eternal gratitude the boyfriend did not say, "well, you're about to get some religion," or "start praying," or anything like that, before opening fire. Instead he started misquoting Christ. Banging on about inheriting the earth. I didn't quite get the thread. Neither did Itchy. I mean, litterbugs are set to inherit the earth, or what?

The boyfriend could see he'd lost us, and quickly switched gears. All the sudden he goes all Eastern on us.

He says: "Man, it's her karma, not yours."

Itchy looked at me.

"He's right," I said.

"I know," Itchy conceded.

The light turned green. I'm like, "Go."

And it was over.

(Or was it?)