Two weeks before Christmas and here I am in Amsterdam with a young man named Liam, crashing in a room above a coffee shop called Fortuna. I must have lost five pounds. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat.
Randy has finally written
me an e-mail. He wants to know where I am. I told him he could read all about it
when it comes out in paperback. I’m not answering any questions. Let him explain
to the family where I am and why I’m gone.
I could love this city if
it wasn’t for the bitter cold coming in of the IJ bay. Or the lake. Whatever it
is. I am exhausted-- jetlagged, I think--but still? After a week? In spite of
that my senses are sharp, I am processing every detail of my surroundings: the
drip, drip, drip of a faucet I can’t see. Shouts that I hear from the street
below. The red and green paisley print scarf hanging in front of a book case. One
flame dancing in an unseen draft. A spicy scent with a hint of cigarettes and
orange that can only be coming from the young man that just sat down next to me.
Love, Jess
Love, Jess
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