Dear Wigleaf,

Last night at writing group we didn't write, we talked. We ordered drinks from the bar, and tomato soup. Steph put both her arms around Alyx, and Sophie showed us a pencil drawing she had made as a child, of naked Kate Winslet in Titanic, which had perfect toes, and carefully circular boobs, and wild Medusa tendrils writhing from its head.

Alyx had printed her novel on marigold-yellow paper. Sophie had taken new headshots, and the one Steph loved most was really an outtake, where Sophie is laughing, and the makeup brush darts into the frame to touch up her cheek.

Some memories can make you stop in the street and say "fuck" out loud, they are that embarrassing. When Alyx shares hers, we all say the telling was cinematic, thrilling.

Mine's from fourth grade, when Colin Prescott confided he hadn't done his Spanish project. The other three gasp when I admit that I told on him: so strong was my sense of duty toward "the rules" that I betrayed him before the whole class.

I'm always so happy I get to be here now instead. No longer nine, but twenty-nine, thank god, in a bar on Smith Street. When Sophie turns thirty next month, she wants hand-written letters for presents. Steph says that laughing this much is just what she needed.

I'm halfway home when I realize: I left my scarf on the floor of the bar. I describe it as "beloved" in the text I send Sophie, and then I go all the way back.

xo
Kate




- - -

Read Kate Doyle's story.

W i g l e a f                12-12-19                                [home]