Ink upon my hands. The copier broken again. I swear, clearly, I can read the word persimmon between my life line and love line with its pink scar from Angie's misplaced fork, years ago, where the fortune teller said, very serious, this will take a long time.
Last night she drove miles and miles, through tiny towns, to get to the restaurant which was supposed to be good. It was. Stilton cheese, tuna in towers, salmon with salted skin, rhubarb tart, wine. On the way back, I sat in back while my friends chatted. It is my favorite thing, to sit in the backseat on long, dark journeys. The people in front talk, but I do not. I looked at the stars, and thought how each was a thing I wanted to show to you.
I always thought I would not be lonely when I found the person who did not make me think of others. That is difficult to say. What I mean is, not wishing myself elsewhere. What I mean is, being here in this body, in this restaurant, in this car. There is so much in this world. I would point out the light, this time of day my favorite, gold-struck grasses, my friend Stephen and I used to call Maxfield Parrish light, after the painter. How this awful land is beautiful. How the earth is red when you churn it up. Bees light the dogwood. A tiny black pony is near to the fence.
On the way back, there was a carnival, green lit rides above the trees. I wanted to stop, but how can you say, stop?
Stop. I want to say. Rhubarb tart. Parrish light. Pony. Stars.
