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I woke to the sound of nothingness, to a dark Wednesday morning and checked the time: 3:25 a.m. Hadn't I just told a stranger how well I sleep at night? He walked me home before I could tell him I'm not the sort of girl you walk home; I had to count minutes in the stairwell before coming back out to sit on the stoop and smoke a cigarette, telling a girlfriend the walk home lets me digest an evening and now I didn't get a moment to myself. The evening was cool, as though fall might approach again, and somewhere in the pit of my stomach stirred the involuntary fear of winter. Too soon, I whispered to myself between glasses of wine. This isn't it. I tossed and turned in bed for much too long, seeing the early morning alarm clock race towards me with its promise of struggle. A novel manuscript lay upended around me, it is less a story now than assorted piles of dropped juggling acts and loose threads, I do not have time to be walked home late at night when I have this surgery to tend to.

My horoscope says this is the month my dreams come true.

And that doesn't happen unless you make them.