When I got to the rental house in Santa Fe, I slammed the car door. I hadn’t meant to. It just sort of happened, the way things do when you’re not sure of yourself. I’d just left my job back East for a year, to write a novel. At least that’s what I’d said. I hadn’t wanted to admit the truth. It was because of James.
I’d met him on a mountain in Vermont, a ski instructor with fantastic arms. He lived in the desert with two Labradors and a beat-up Ford pickup.
Come to New Mexico, he’d said in the email. I’ll teach you a few new moves.
But when I stepped onto the patio the Sandia Mountains rose up purple and auburn. James faded away like early morning fog in the hot sun.
In the kitchen I made tea. Then I unpacked my laptop and began to write.
No comments:
Post a Comment