To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. He stood outside of the car, bewildered, as she walked up to the BMW’s front bumper. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. “No, Lucy, it isn’t fine and I am sorry. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb. All this Woman-who-Diddery —no damn good.
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