I am in St. Louis—a few days of rest before the passing back and forth of holiday cheer, all of us moving to the beat of racing Christmas lights. Joe is working at the bookstore. In exchange for his “upstocking” and spine-aligning, we earn money for the wedding and 50 percent off of all his Christmas gifts.
While he works, I tell myself I’ll write. I sit on the couch or let my pet rabbit hop around on the area rug in front of the door. I paint my nails for the first time in months, something I thought I was over. (After spending $7 on the dark purple polish, I’ll make myself by a bit more dedicated to it for a while.
While he works, I buy groceries from the family-owned store with its greening bronze roof—the roof that reminds me of home, of the courthouse until the summer a few years back when a crew scrubbed the whole thing. I fill (what we call the studio when I visit) our apartment with comfort foods—French baguettes and blueberry preserves, gnocchi and tomatoes,
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