August 14, 2004

We spent our last day on a hammock, swinging, falling, being photographed. Martha wore khakis and so did I, and by the time we realized we were an anti-commercial it was already 5:30 and the packed bags were waiting in the hallway.

“Martha, don’t go.”

“Over the next four days I’m giving Pier 1 more time than I’ve ever given you.”

And she left, giving me a fragment of tooth to bite me during my nights of loneliness and letters to devour on the road.

I drank a bottle of wine to quench my loneliness by the time she called the cottage late in the evening.

“Without you I’m becoming a slobbering alcoholic,” I said, and went to bed dreading the remaining 500 km of loneliness ahead of me.