I drove home barefoot, in the dark, in the rain. The roads were empty, the people in the tollbooths sleepy and unappreciative of the music I nicely shared with them. It's not my fault they don't like Michael Jackson at one in the morning.

A month ago at the goodbye party: Thriller, Nick trying to dance with me and I'm laughing, laughing too hard to dance, falling over him and myself and laughing until finally I manage to speak. We listened to this at the bindery sometimes and now whenever I hear it I feel like binding books, I gasp. He loses his breath from laughing so hard.

Home! Except my mail is in New York, and my stuff is in Baltimore. Now home is where my etching plates are. I pull into the drive slowly, walk up dark porch stairs and dark studio stairs and dark apartment stairs, try not to wake up Pi.