Bonjour, I have Covid.

Wow what a wild and fun time to be alive.

Am I even allowed to write that? Is someone going to censor me for saying that? I’ve had my shots. But this new one is really contagious so I got it. I also had it right when this whole thing started. That first time was a lot scarier. This time I mostly just kind of feel like I’m high.

Earlier I was meandering around my apartment and tidying up. Because if I don’t, no one else is going to. While I was tidying up, I was dancing a little. Even though I was a little dizzy.

But then it hit me how strange it was that *no one* could come into this space and see me right now. How this silly and innocuous little scene was completely closed off from the rest of world (and honestly, it would have been anyway). But now I was officially Sick. So it was closed off for the sake of public safety, not just privacy. That made it feel a little heavier.

I took two tests and both of them had two angry red lines, pretty much instantly. I thought about making a joke that woops, I’d accidentally bought a pregnancy test instead. But I didn’t.

It hasn’t really been all that dramatic. My parents sent me comfort food groceries and I have been playing video games and watching TV all day. I feel loopy and feverish but I’m okay. It’s hot as fuck outside and everything is so weird but I am okay. I feel tired and wired but also okay.


I am a playwright. I write plays. Create theater.

So what happens when I cancel a show that I wrote? And read long guilt trip texts from my now-super-pissed director? And write apology emails to the entire cast, and the people running the theater? Am I still a playwright then?

What am I when I completely lose my inspiration and don’t want to do this anymore? When thinking about it makes me heavy with dread?

If I’m not a playwright, do I become No Longer Interesting? Do I find something new to do? Some way to be creative that actually feels fun?

I don’t know. But when a lot of people are angry, you tend to just mostly feel like a goblin who has ruined everyone’s time.


I don’t usually sleep much on a full moon, but this time was different. So many dreams! I only remember a couple.

The dream where your teeth fall out. I had an extremely elaborate version of that. It boggles my mind that my dream made them feel so weak. Like they could be knocked out by the lightest touch. And then it’s permanent irreparable damage. Or at least it seems that way. The faux-physical feeling though. That’s the craziest part. Your brain trying relentlessly to convince you that this time, unlike all the others, is the truth.

The other one was just crying. I don’t remember many details. Just lots of sobbing. Grief-based. At nighttime. While hugging someone I couldn’t see.

It’s a full moon in Sagittarius. So you’d think the dreams would be, I don’t know, a little more gregarious. But here we are. Sobbing in dreams and trying to crawl back onto the internet while also being freaked out by it.

it’ll feel so good when you jump in

Veil thins and teal dye tempts.

Remind the world that you’re a mermaid.


The tease of dreaminess. 

Lose yourself but be careful.


On dates with her, adventure tends to bubble.

The coffeeshop is closed but we sneak in anyway.

There’s an event.

They give us free drinks

As if we signed up for any of this.


Or we’re in a bar that doubles as an old-world wax museum.

She takes pictures of me but the backgrounds are grotesque.

The bartender apologizes for something and she compliments his apron.

He blurts out that we’re both sexy.

I laugh but mostly I just feel dizzy.


I get anxious over lonely nightmares and dreams coming true.

I’m not always sure what my dreams even are.


A tidal wave of iridescent bliss hits my imagination

And I worry that I’ll miss it

Or not take correct advantage of it.


The mermaid sees the wave and dives into it.

Without fear, without thought

Just warm water and sunlight

Moving her body as it was always meant to move

Pleasure without overthink.


If you let yourself get swept up

You will not drown

As long as you remember to breathe.

all over the place

My neighbor’s lonely cat yowled constantly for almost an entire week straight. Its crying got longer and sadder until I worried it might be dying. There was a call to animal control. And then a sudden reappearance of the owner.

There was water on my bathroom floor and a constant drip-drip-drip I couldn’t stop. The sound made me feel insane. An extremely gentle plumber came and compared a toilet to a body that needs to be taken care of and nourished, you can’t just expect it to get to 75 years on its own.

There was waking up in the dark, terrified and not knowing what I’m doing. Feeling like I’m not living correctly because I don’t have a partner. But do I? Do I need to know what I’m doing? Does anybody know what they’re doing?

Nobody answers me. There’s just darkness and my own anxiety.

Also, taxes.

I write plays. They were why I moved to New York. On good days, they feel like they are why I’m alive. On bad days, I don’t think they’re very good. On pandemic days, they didn’t even exist. But I wrote a play in lockdown, so I could at least pretend to have voices to listen to.

So now Mercury is not retrograde anymore. Theater exists again. And I am flirting with the idea of sending the play I wrote to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Which would be terrifying. And an adventure. And me making theater again. Just….. in Scotland this time.

Friends smile and say “you should do it!!” And I know they mean well, but if I’m being honest it all makes me want to cry or scream or hide somewhere. But then, you know, I’d wake up in the darkness of my hiding place and freak out over not spending my life correctly.

So, it’s a lot.

Someone get this woman an edible. Stat.

both sides of a full moon

We had dinner together two nights ago. It was the first time meeting you in person, after knowing you for a year. We coped with the 2020 election by constantly sexting BDSM fantasies to each other.

No one’s words have ever revved me up into such a constant state. You made me remember a dark and gorgeous part of myself that I had been pushing down out of fear. You made me start to feel proud of that part.

I still reread those sexts. But we don’t do that anymore. I was afraid you would disappear. But now we have known each other for far longer than we did all that.

For months I’ve been picking up all the wild feelings that were stirred up. One of which was wondering if I was in love with you. But anyway you don’t really know any of this. We’re just friends. This was a friend dinner.

You wrote a theater piece, and last week I went to it. It wasn’t actually in a theater – it was in a giant indoor space. I wore headphones and wandered around, listening to monologues from characters in an empty living room. Or a very well-lit kitchen. Or a perfectly staged New York City apartment. There was an inevitable “March 2020 in New York” scene that gave me PTSD. There was a first date scene you wrote where both people were going through the motions like robots. You’re not that way at all but they were your words.

Dinner was your way of thanking me for going to the show. I suggested a very basic coffeeshop and you countered with a really cute Mediterranean restaurant that had *delicious* food and outdoor tables.

I’ve had an image of you in my head for a year (built on videos and images and audio notes) and you turned out to fit that image perfectly. I couldn’t believe you were just sitting there. You were nervous and I was pretending not to be.

I have to admit. At dinner, there weren’t any heavy heart-poundy dramatic moments. Mostly we were just keeping a conversation going. About theater and writing and other nerdy things. You are brilliant (I already knew that) and you talked really fast. You have a kind smile and you are just magical.

Okay anyway.

That night was a full moon and something insane happened. A man with slick hair and a trench coat teleported out of the 1980’s and approached our table. He said there was a man nearby who wanted directions to a place but was afraid to ask because he was Black. There was indeed a Black man standing nearby and he looked mortified.

Trench coat man was white. And drunk. And extremely angry when we didn’t know where that place was. He slurred something about calling the cops. He said a bunch of other things to try and scare us. I looked at the other man and said, again, we don’t know where that place is. He rushed up to the drunk trench coat man, “come *on* man leave them alone!” And then both of them parted ways and completely disappeared.

“Welcome to Manhattan,” I told you.

So that is a thing that happened. On a full moon I finally meet you and crazy shit happens. Sounds about right.

The next day you texted about a weird dream where you were breathing with your mouth open and Taylor Swift was turned off by it. Somehow in my head, I made that about me.

I don’t know what the hell any of this means or what I’m doing. But I care about you and love that you are in my life.

buzzing witchery flights

I’ve been spinning around all day, on edge, ready to get mad or annoyed or loopy. Stubbed my toe two different times, yelled fuck three different times.

Do you ever remember something about your younger self – see a photo or something they wrote or a thing they did – and miss that person? Who was trying so hard to look like an adult and everyone around knew the truth. And they still loved her. Maybe it was even endearing.

Younger Me was very sweet. Hopeful. Open. Demure on the surface but secretly filthy. Excited for things. Dreaming about things. A blindsided ego about things.

Hello I’m younger self and I’m still here. Just a little bit buried under years of memories now. I remember how it felt to come home from college and see your parents, be a teenager (because you still *are* a teenager), sneak upstairs to belt out musical theater songs because you’re tipsy and it feels good. Then see your friends. Drive around in chill night air and feel like you can do/create/be anything. I’m still here. And I still struggle with feeling something and expressing it in a way that has to be exactly right and perfect or nothing.

It’s not true. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just said. Expressed. Just honor that creative pulse as it runs you into an idea and makes you fall in love with it. That’s all. Just ground yourself and remember how your essence feels and let yourself live off that pulse.

hi oh gosh i’m so light and fun!

Today I was scrolling through new blog themes.

For a fresh look.

Because it’s spring.

But anxiety quickly spoiled the freshness.

And questions sprung up.

Do I take enough photos?

Is everyone a photographer now?

And also a hipster I guess?


What am I even doing on here?

Why am I wasting time?

Last year I wrote/produced a play and got a job and moved to a new city

And now I’m…

Stewing over blog themes.

Does this font make me look playful?


Hills and valleys and ebbs and flows and so on and so on amen it’s okay.


Baldemar Is Made of Clay: 9

Writing story fiction drama fantasy comedy man life office tense baldemar creative novel

Much of the late morning was spent with his head on the desk.  Baldemar had forgotten what work he was supposed to do today.  Every time he looked up at the inbox the pile of propaganda had grown higher.  People from other offices had caught word of what floor he worked on and swarmed around his desk, saying close to nothing.  They assumed he was asleep and waking him would leave him less inclined to listen to any of their messages.  But rather than try to pencil themselves in to Baldemar’s appointment calendar, they leered.   For hours.

“I don’t think he’s going to wake up any time soon.”  Someone whispered.

“He’s got to.  We’ve been standing here all morning.”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“If you wake him up he’s going to say no.  You’re too weak to even give him a poke.”

“Quiet.  I don’t see you trying to wake him either.”

“You will if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

“Excuse me?”

Baldemar sat up and smacked the desk.  “Is there something I can help you all with?”

“Baldemar!  You’re awake!”

“So good to meet you Mr. Baldemar!”

“You’re so much more handsome in person!”

“Oh for God’s-”

“Are you having a good day today?”

“That’s such a great shirt!”

“We were hoping you could take a look at some of our literature.”

“There’s a lot there, have you ever considered sorting your stack into two piles so you’d know which issue you were looking into?”

A blue stick hand grabbed the top paper.  “It’s hard to tell which issue you’re even looking at until you’re done reading it.”

“You touched his papers?”

“Who do you think you are?”

“Hey, shut up.  You’re being extremely unpro-”

“Can you please get out of my face while I’m trying to talk to Mr. Baldemar.”

“Everyone else here has just as much a right to talk to him as you do.”

“Stop interrupting me please.  I was here first.”

Baldemar watched as if he was not there.  Gradually people stopped paying attention to him and focused on yelling at each other.  He snuck past all of them, went to the bathroom (not having gone the whole morning), and when he returned they were still there, pushing now, trying to strangle.  Baldemar clapped his hands and hollered.  The yell gained volume until it sounded like an animal and hushed everything around it.  They all looked stunned at finding him there in the corner, yelling like a savage, angry like the rest of them.  

When his lungs ran out of air he regained his composure, and went into the break room for a much needed cup of coffee.  Ever one for pleasantries, he decided to make it himself.  When he walked back out they were still there.

“..You feeling alright Mr. Baldemar?”

“Fine and dandy.”  He took a sip from the mug.  “Fine and dandy indeed.  Good coffee.  I haven’t made any in a while.  You guys come to this floor often?”

“…No, Mr. Baldemar.”

“No, many of us are on the higher top floors.”

“Well that sure is funny.  You guys want any coffee?”

They looked around at each other with uneasy smiles.  “No thank you, Mr. Baldemar.”

“And where did we get this whole Mr. Baldemar formality?  I’m sure many of you are higher up than I am.  It’s nonsense.”

“It’s… it’s because you’ve reached a new stature as of late.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“So would you like us to just call you Baldemar instead?”

Another, longer sip.  “No.”

A yellow stick figure of a man approached Baldemar, carrying a packet and smiling.  “It’s a great honor to meet you, Mr. Baldemar.”  He gave a laugh but nothing was funny.  “I was wondering if you-”  

“No.”  Baldemar pointed to his desk.  “Put it there or I will not read it.”

He gave the same laugh.  “But Mr. Baldemar, if you, if I put it there, the likelihood is not very good that you will read it, and since you have met me now and you know that I am not some sick angry individual,” there were dissenting shouts in the background, “then you—then- then wouldn’t you like to just read this for yourself now?”

Baldemar held up a hand and the shouting stopped.  “Put it on the desk.  Or I will not read it.”

The man waved the packet in despair.  “You won’t regret it, sir, I promise.  It’s too good an information brochure to let be passed on in a wad of paper.”

“Shut up man, he told you what to do, you just know he doesn’t want to side with you.”

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Oh that is very professional.”

“Well then, I will put it right on top of the stack, that way you will know right where it is when the time comes.”  The yellow man walked back to the desk, knocked the entire stack out of the inbox, and placed his on top of what was left.  

“What the hell is the matter with you!”

“Who do you think you are!”

“This asshole is going to screw it up for all the rest of us.”

“The only sick individual is the one trying to weasel his way past us.”

“He’ll probably be out back waiting to run you over when you’re done with work.”


No one heard him.  The shouts worsened.  Pleasantness was failing horribly today.  Baldemar walked to his desk.  Only when he threw his coffee mug at the desk, and ceramic and coffee sprayed, only then was there quiet.

Baldemar clasped his hands together.  “I want all of you to leave.  Right now.  No one is welcome at my desk unless they have thoroughly been screened.  This is particularly unpleasant, I know, but frankly so are all of you.  At this rate I am not going to agree to do anything you want me to, no matter what side you are on, so you should best see yourself out the way you came.  That coffee mug is worth nine dollars seventy cents.  I expect to be repaid for it.”

“Mister.. Mister Baldemar?”

“Oh for God’s sakes, what else could you possibly need to say to me?  I just told all of you to go away.  I will read every piece of literature that will fit on that god-forsaken inbox in due time.  And then I will come to a decision.  And when I do, I will let you know, but until then, please kindly get the ever loving hell away from my desk.  Much appreciated.  Sincerely, Mr. Baldemar.”

They shuffled off.  He could not remember a time where he felt more exhausted.  When he was sure he was either about to die or fall asleep in paper, Pud appeared.

“Good gravy what happened here?”

“Grave unpleasantness.”

“Oh Baldie.  I picked a hell of a time to be productive.”

“Yes you did.”  He blinked.  “You were actually productive?”

“Ch-yeah!  It surprised me too!  Baldie you look kind of terrible.”  


“What’s this brown stuff on the floor?”


“You forget where the sink was?”


“You broke something too?”

“It is all ridiculous.”


“Did you not hear what was happening?  How did no one hear that?”

“I did hear a lot of noise, but you know that that’s gotten to be sort of commonplace around here by now.”

“I told them all to leave.  I threw my drink at them.  It broke and now I don’t have a mug.  This has been a horribly unpleasant day and it’s not even lunch yet.”

“And we haven’t even had that daily town hall thing yet.”

A suck of air behind him, of another balloon inflating.  He hoped the eventual spear would go right through him.

“Definitely not a day for pleasantness.”  He said with a sigh.  “I’m taking a walk.”

“Where?  Can I come?”

“No Pud.  I don’t really want to be around people for a while.  No offense.  But right now, I can’t believe I’m saying it, but you would be the most likely person I’d want to go for a walk with.”

“Oh wow.  Gosh.  That means a whole hell of a lot Baldie.”

Baldemar still never knew when Pud was being serious.  He left the desk and the coffee cup stains and walked down the hallway and could have bumped into Admus himself and not noticed.  Walked outside and watched the birds and forgot his safety reports and put his head and his hands and slept in the sweet elusive quiet.

Baldemar Is Made of Clay: 8

Writing story fiction drama fantasy comedy girl creator filmmaker baldemar creative novel lesbian love heartache sylvie bernadette

Bern’s head fell onto her knees, not of her own volition.  Green clay, Igobert’s sludge, was all over her hands.  The film felt like a mess.  What had she been thinking when she made this strange little thing?  Was it too frightening to fit into Baldemar’s world?  What purpose was it going to serve?  When had her head started throbbing so badly?  Her body knew it was late but in the dark room it was impossible to tell how much time had passed.  There was at least pizza in the fridge.

She imagined drug users felt this way after a long binge, delirious and forgetful of who they were, with unsightly smears on their hands, from God only knew what.  The main difference, she assumed, was the satisfaction that hummed in her bones along with the fatigue, at having accomplished something, at having at least had a reason to be up so late.

Baldemar stared in frozen terror from his desk chair.  Often Bernadette worried that she had made him look too cute.  Even with the sad black caverns for eyes, he verged on looking more fitting in a children’s cartoon.  But it was too late to make a new one.  If she could do it again she would probably have picked a color besides blue.  Pud crouched in a ball beside him.  She worried he looked too much like Gumby.

“Berrrrrrnie Bernie Bernie you need to go to bed.”

But first there would be pizza.  She would save the Coke for tomorrow, when she needed the caffeine.  It was now time to reward hard work with an obscene calorie intake.

Outside was black and the kitchen clock read 4 AM.  Loneliness slammed into her unexpectedly.  She went to the window and the glass was cold.  Were it not for the brilliant stars outside and the little world lying in wait downstairs, this would have been a spectacularly ordinary evening.  But she had been productive.

Loneliness was not caused by Sylvia necessarily, though her presence sans children or husband would have been nice.  They would end up bickering about something, but it would have been an improvement from staring through frosted glass at the crack of dawn by one’s self.  If she closed her eyes and stood there for a few more hours the nagging mental pain would become too much sensation to bear.

But the pizza.  Yes.  Where did you put the pizza.  Rationality unexpectedly took reign when she was not thinking and directed her to putting the food in the refrigerator.  Sometimes she felt it would be better to turn her consciousness off completely and give subconscious full control.  Only with that did she ever end up in her bed after a night of drinking, or not kiss an inappropriate human after a night of loneliness.

The pizza looked significantly less impressive after eight hours in a dark studio.  She was sure the meat had had a more appetizing color while the sun was still up.  Now it looked like human flesh left out in open air too long.  But she still took a piece, still felt the hot cheese and sauce and the wet heat on her tongue and incisors.  Momentarily forgot that for most people daylight was starting imminently.

In times when the world was at its quietest, her mind seemed to prattle louder than ever.  Did she do her laundry today?  Put money into her Roth IRA today?  Because God knew she wasn’t going to be a claymation animator forever.  Did she clean the apartment before that fateful horrible phone call with Sylvia?  Did Sylvie actually enjoy picking up the phone and talking to her?  Was her mother all that surprised that her daughter became lonely in that little black room and had to talk to someone?   Was it true that all mothers, no matter how much time had passed, secretly loved hearing from their somewhat estranged children?  

The single slice of pizza was not satisfying enough, so Bern began devouring a second.  Fed up with thinking about Baldemar and co., she allowed her mind to venture to Sylvia, futile though it was.  It had not always been bad, but became unbearable when it was.  Sylvia, even with a polyamorous husband, never believed she could truly have Bernadette, and of course, Bernadette, in love with a married woman, never believed she could truly have her either.  So they pined away and lied to each about it, and the cycle continued until Sylvia moved to middle of nowhere California, popped out two children and made herself even less attainable than ever before.

Bern pulled the crust off the pizza. Had it really been so simple?  Was that really an abridged version of the last eleven years of her life?  Not five, not ten, eleven.  Oh my husband’s away, but he knows what I’m doing and he knows who you are, so this is okay.  Derek is on a business trip but he told me to say hi, even though you haven’t met him.  Derek saw a picture and said he loves your hair that length, especially with the color and thickness you already have.  False hope and flattery until one day Derek wasn’t so keen on you anymore after all, and suddenly the couple was a family, and not only that, but shipping itself across the country.

“You must understand Bernie, Derek thinks it will be a better place to raise a family.  No one ever seems to suffer from stress in San Francisco.  Ultimately it should be better for them there.”

She had listened nicely, done all the things she thought a supportive “girlfriend” should do in the situation.  But in the end it did not matter.  In the end, even if she had flipped a table over, Sylvia still would have left, still would have been pulled to the sunshine state and started a supposedly “open” family, which probably only meant Sylvie took care of the kids while Derek wandered off to a company event and flirted his way into the bed of someone else.  But even then, Sylvia and Derek would still have each other and all Bernadette would have was her figures.  Her sweet, at times all too unrealistic figures.  Well at least you have some friends.

Before completely aware what was happening, Bernadette was on the roof of her house with a beer and a piece of pizza.  Her taste in alcoholic refreshment was dreadful and always had been.  After producing a wildly successful independent claymation film, in an era where claymation was practically irrelevant, she had her pick of the India Pale Ales and all the other generic fruity concoctions.  But she stuck to what was true, cheap, and foul.  Miller Light, always Miller Light, even though she was sure licking the rim of her toilet seat would have been tastier.

The night was colder outdoors and the stars more briskly bright.  Bern drank the bottled urine.  She liked the roof because there was always the chance that she could move an inch the wrong way and go tumbling into a twisted demise.  Then she felt dreadful for liking this.  Sane people never thought things like this.  Then again sane people did not spend days in a dark room with a group of handmade people.  She was now  commended for creating her only friends.

“What do you ultimately want to do with this skill?” Sylvia had said once.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to know what I mean.  Or else you wouldn’t have gotten into this thing in the first place.  What do you hope to accomplish with specializing in claymation?”

It had seemed like a ridiculously obvious question at the time, but Bernadette could not think of a good explanation to save her life.  She pretended to ponder, but just grappled in her head for words, when really the only reason she could think of was, “because I wanted to create a group of people who would understand me unquestioningly.”

What came out instead was, “I am a part of this craft because I want to show how I see things, or how I feel things should be, without them being tainted by anything else.”

Sylvia, bless her heart, had bought this bull shit excuse.  Had smiled her sweet, blonde smile, and taken all her nonsense for legitimate reason.  And Bernadette had momentarily forgotten her loneliness, kissed a soft neck and buried a face in soft hair and heard soft moans again, knowing it would end all too soon.  Would lose herself in the awful dream moment.

Sylvia asked her only once if she wanted to try for a ménage a trois.  It had seemed like such a bizarre question that Bernadette almost laughed in her doe eyed face.  To be with a man felt completely unnatural, especially with a woman she loved in the same room.   

“No,” Bernadette had said, “Unlike some I am a full on lesbian,” and the subject was never brought up again.  Sylvie was sweet enough that she had probably become embarrassed.  Bernadette had never met or even seen Derek Smith.

In her delirious roof dweller state she wondered what it would be like to have dinner with the man who married her girlfriend.  Wondered if the topic of conversation would inevitably return, time and again, to Sylvie’s nether regions, as that was all they had in common in terms of conversation topics.  She even let herself imagine what he looked like, and stuck the results in the backgrounds of many a short clay film.  Buff, bronzed, blonde.  A beach-colored blonde to match Sylvia’s soft, vintage hue.  The children were inevitably blonde.  Bernadette had never even looked at pictures, though a copious amount were emailed to her over the years.  Every time a paperclip was attached to an e-note from Sylvia, Bernadette deleted it.

But what is to become of you, she thought desolately.  Delusions of grandeur swamped her thought.  Too good to simply roll off the roof and into oblivion, but too strange to adapt.  She would not be having children.  She did not want them.  This disappointed the parents.  What happened when the film was over?  When ideas ran dry?  When all you were left with was your own odd self and irrepressible loneliness?  Kill yourself or die trying?

The sun was starting to come up and in the low light there were silhouettes on tree branches.  Birds sleeping in a perfect line, but soon one would wake up and begin to chirp, rouse the others into bickering back.  The day would begin with chaos, like it always did, like it always would.

Bern drank more beer.  “This is getting ridiculous.” She murmured.  “You are sitting on a roof.  How did you even get up here?  Why didn’t you just go to bed when you were done working?  Why are you talking to yourself?  What is the point of any of this?”

She would get down from the roof.  She would wake up tomorrow and the day would be the same.  Always the same.  There was pain in the mundane but there was even more in death.  Or was there?  Monotony went on endlessly, while death only needed a second.  Which of the two hurt more? How could anyone really tell?

At five fifteen Bernadette crawled back into the house through her bedroom window.  The bed looked like a cloud and the moment of falling onto the softness was the most beautiful of the day.  She moved her hand across the pillow and imagined it was Sylvia’s body.  Only gave herself permission to fantasize about lips and eyes and yellow hair in the final seconds of her day.  

Her weary mind still hummed with worry.  Why had she called her today?  Had the state of lonely really been so terrible?  Was there no other number she could have dialed instead?  But even then it did not ruin the fantasies.  She still fell asleep dreaming about soft fingers on her body.


Six hours later she awoke with no headache, surrounded by white sheets.  Sunlight and sleep erased much of the loneliness.   Today would be better.  There would be no more wallowing.  Nothing productive ever came of that, at least in her process.  

Something buzzed on the night stand.  The sound was unfamiliar.  This was the noise phones made now?  When had this happened?  Before rationality took hold her heart pounded at thinking it might be her.  

It was a reminder of a lunch date with her agent in an hour.

“Well shit a brick.”bernie.gif