New Orleans, July 6, 2005

Dear S.

A different regret every night—and afterwards. Just the time getting past. I listen to the men and she talks. Together, we are a whole person. Alone, I am a cold, flat. I can see why they mind.

Surreptitious faking. Muddy because everyone uses. So many possible loves flickering. Each one wants to weave his own pattern into the rug.

But how can I practice this Southern Belle thing without you?

Love,

M.