He insists, Write, when I am still tipsy on margaritas with Niva dah-ling from Dalva's and sangria from elsewhere. Other sweets, yes: masala tea ice cream from the Bombay Ice Creamerie on Valencia, which was too subtle for hung-over Niva who only wanted herb-dusted French fries, & later, fresh-from-the-fryer powdered donut holes, to be dunked liberally in a tiny teacup of hot frothy chocolate. This is all I can write about at 11:47 pm on a Sunday evening, because I am tipsy and full of good things and not so hungry but wanting, instead, to cuddle and watch Ratcatcher and wake up early before work. Lovely weekends don't really make for the sturm and drang of fiction. It is simply that: donuts and ice cream and love spread thick and creamy. (and where is Isobel, her heart full of dust, resolute on the idea that she would never be young and married and sad? Now Isobel has become a girl named Phillina, "lover" in Greek, in love with a boy with many names, one form, one heart and mine.)

love, and madly-in-love,
Phil

<<