Liza slid a card across the table. “Seriously, call this guy. If you’re feeling fucked up, he’ll get you some good stuff. Trust me.” She winked slyly.

Thanks,” Marji’s smile was sarcastic, but she took the card and slid it into her purse.


Marji stopped on a bench in the park near her car. Walking had become difficult lately, her thoughts too heavy, her limbs like syrup. She pulled out the card Liza had given her and wondered what illness or disorder Dr. Michaels would diagnose and what he would prescribe. She wanted to write her internet friend about her lunch. He’d probably laugh, he had a sense of humor. He’d liked her recent poem, he said she should paint…then, fuck, she thought…I don’t know him, he’s a projection of whatever I want him to be filtered through profile pictures and a brief personal description…,I’m having a relationship with space…I need another drink…

“Come with me. Why not?” he wrote her. “Maybe it’s what you need. Get away from everything. Simplify. Take time to think. Re-imagine your life.”

He made it sound reasonable, and Marji found her thoughts drifting to colorful tree frogs, walls of rainbows vegetation, and thick, languid air. She imaged a cacophony of colors she would translate into fat notebooks. She pictured herself walking into the city at the top of the mountains with the ancient wind whipping across her skin. She imagined touching the polished stones of the Incas, a place beyond time…She imagined touching him, breathing him in—warm skin, the hard curve of arm, his hand brushing her cheek—and she could feel his lips firm on hers. She touched her lips.


She pulled an apron over her head and wrapped it around her waist, not wanting to dirty her new sweater. She was bent over digging through a cupboard when the doorbell rang. She stood up, and felt a surge from her leg almost falling asleep. She opened the front door and the figure was familiar, it took a moment for her to register.

“Paul,” she said, her voice was hoarse and she could feel herself shaking. “What are you doing here?”

His smile was warm, all the way to his deep, dark eyes. He had shaggy blond hair that looked like it rarely saw a comb.

“I was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d surprise you. I brought you some flowers.” He passed her a bouquet of colorful wildflowers, his hand shocking hers when they touched. “You wrote a poem about wildflowers.” His voice was deep, rich and she couldn’t help staring at the line of his lips.

“I’m sorry. You can’t be here,” Marji backed slowly through the door. “You have to go…”

“I’m sorry…I thought…” He looked crestfallen.

“You have to go,” Marji rushed back like a panicked animal. She shut the door and lay against it, sinking to the floor. She sat there, a broken jar, gazing blank-eyed at the shards of herself.

She picked herself up and drifted into the kitchen, shutting the top of her laptop when she passed. She slid onto a chair and her purse was there, on the edge of the counter. She reached for it her hand sifting through the contents until it found what it wanted, thin and smooth in a pocket. She pulled out the card and set it on the counter in front of her and gazed at the heavy black letters. What, she wondered, would he prescribe?