The key falls down the mail slot and I am reduced to but one small key on my chain. It leads to a storage outside the city; only one box there bears my name. Within an hour, I am sitting in a boat, being rowed across the straight to that small cabin which will now be our home. The evening is cool, but we jump in nonetheless; I will swim every day we are out here, I proudly proclaim. I will hold you to that, she snickers incredulously.
We make friends with the neighbor over a bottle of champagne and wild strawberries. Dinner is all soft cheese and smoked salume red wine lingering cigarette smoke. At ten it is still light, and I am exhausted. I retire to the small guest house in back, a cottage the size of my New York room and four bunk beds stacked against the walls. It’s just me. The walls smell of ancient lives and 70’s patterns. The water from the well tastes of minerals but is cool. I put on wool socks, bring my book (a book! How long has it been since I’ve read!), and climb the bunk on the left. My body unwinds, slowly, reluctantly. I have forgotten where my phone is. The night is impossibly quiet. I drift away.
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