Five AM. I wake. It’s cold and dark. You know, February. My body aches to have a woman beside me. Then my mind turns to more important things: do I have any coffee left? I get out of bed and force myself to the freezer where I find just enough coffee for four cups.

Hours later, after trying to write a story about a young woman who jumped off a bridge into the Seine River in Paris and drowned, a story I have been trying to write for years now, I feel as if I am that woman–dead and gone that is.

I read two Raymond Carver poems. Then the pain really starts.

Published in: on February 7, 2008 at 10:55 am  Leave a Comment  

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