I pack ten of my favorite books (count in: The Sun Also Rises, Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, all my Margaret Atwood, and IQ84 which I've barely touched), my favorite short-sleeved blouses, a few good sweaters, black jeans, and all my grandmother's jewelry. I bring my good pencils, my oil pastels, my favorite sharpener, and my charcoal.
I start listening to more trip-hop. I patronize piano bars. I'm friends with neo-classical musicians and installation artists. I watch televised sporting events in bars and I let myself have fun because it reminds me of my father. I send sketches of the city to my mother. I have a darkroom in my bathroom, and I go to bed wearing my earrings. I send post cards to my family. I dye my hair black. I keep a nail file in my purse. My hands always look perfect.
There will be one night when I get too drunk on amaretto sours with my best friend and we have sex. In the morning we wake up in love. We rent a house and grow a garden. I make us raw hazelnut and dark chocolate brownies for breakfast on Sundays. She goes down on me in the hallway before we go out to meet acquaintances. We break up thinking hopefully we'll keep in touch, send each other pictures of our kids in the mail, forever remember each other's birthdays.
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