We went to the Adirondacks last weekend.
Or was that a dream? Hours spent reading by the fire, snowy walks on the lake, long baths in a cast iron tub.
No internet, no cell service, no phone.
The yachtsman made his famous seitan vindaloo, his famous biscuits. He, famously, took naps on the couch with the dog curled up in the crook of his bent legs. In my dream it was so beautiful I vowed never again to complain about winter.
And then we drove home and I stepped out of the car into a puddle of icy slush and the wind slapped me across the face like I was its bitch and I was all like, "Fuck this." I was like, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I was like, "Two roads diverged in the woods and I— I— what the hell am I doing living in Vermont?"