It is the year of the student revolution in France. Elayne and I are in a supermarket in Santa Barbara, maybe getting some bananas, which I will later ask her to cut like that (waving my hand in the air in several directions), and will cry when she doesnt understand what I still know to have meant lengthwise, and the tears are tears of frustration at not having enough language to say what I mean.
Vanda drove me down the Bairro Alto, seventeenth-century homes rushing past, facades streaked in sun, steam lifting off terra-cotta roofs from the downpour last night. Leaving Lisbon. In silence.
Sadies idea of a good time was making love to Wilbur in an igloo, on a bear skin rug.