Beside my bed table there is a book. In the book I have a bookmark that Laura gave to me. She gave it to me that night, after we were lost in the rainstorm. She seemed so grateful then. Why did she leave me? Why did she run? Was it a hump? No, nothing so visible. Perhaps it was the meanness in her own heart. But I cannot forgive myself. In the rainstorm, I sit, blotting out all else. Working and wailing away at the thunder and pelting rhythm.

All the time, she lies somewhere, probably on a beach, because she always did like the sun, and I am here ....