In three days I will feel the weight and quality of bathing and lying in an almond grove. But a scrap of misery betrays my American ancestry, so I will serve an excellent red wine in generous tin cans.
Last week she pulled together her history, drama, and email exchanges with me in a redux about a Venetian etching, where cherubs visited the graves of Ptolemy and Cassander. I thought it a poor description of our lives together. Then I pondered (this week) whether she was produced via donor insemination, or from whence she came.
running the whole length of the horizon...