July 16,


Postcard of a library in AZ, mailed from Mississippi to tell me you're in Wyoming.

What have I been doing?

I don't know, honey. What do you think?

Living on a rocky coast, throwing the petals of sea roses into the surf at sunset, riding horses every weekend.

Living in an abandoned hotel in the Thumb in Michigan. Working mornings, of course: a dozen regulars, mostly tourists. Went out on a boat with one of them last weekend. Didn't bring a sweater. As soon as the sun went down, I was freezing.

Watching traffic from the twelfth floor, the week's work hidden in the bottom drawer, to be doled out to Joel in small snatches, as if selling housewives on the most recent hatchback really takes fifty hours a week. These days I need at least three drinks in me to navigate the crowded night streets.

You choose.

You know I've never cared what I do.