I am at the cafe with my stack of pages. I’ve decided that what my book needs is more. It needs riffs, and run-ons, and conversation, and twinkle lights. More threesomes. An excess of lovers. Amplification, illumination. More, more, more.
Two people take a table nearby. A lady is on her cell: This is Lauren—Lauren—and I need to reach the home office urgently. Please can you put me through? I need some advice on this deal, we’ve got to run a background check. . . .
I wish I had a home office. I need advice. I hang up crying after talking to my husband and try to assure myself it’s hormonal. Is it hormonal, home office? Will we ever bridge the distance or is this what my life has become, what I’ve let it become: one square mile and a palm tree, water all around. Or is this a pool of tears? Did I fall into the rabbit hole when I put my pen to the page? Am I falling still, end over end, my sky-blue skirt around my ears, soil on my mary janes? If I eat that mushroom, will I shrink or will I grow? Should I try to steal the hookah? Should I wear the Hatter’s hat? We need to run a background check, home office, who are we dealing with here. This is Averil—Averil. The realest part of me is the backside of a clock that runs the wrong way round.
What would you ask the home office?