My god, the sea bass. Every time, I swear. I’m feeling better this evening. No particular reason—just letting it all flow. I send a friend a voice-note and realize that I sound stoned, my voice is so low and slow here.

I recall a recent kiss goodbye and how he whispered “be good” as he traced a fingertip lightly down my cheek before turning to leave. When will I see him again and how will it be? Who else will have come and gone by then?

This dense little town with its heavy jungle, thick with secrets. Does anyone already know anything about me?

I’m thinking about men. About one, who was …

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