Swarms of mosquitoes and gnats danced over in the afternoons, and the brown water gone lazy carried a film on top that curved and caught cottonwood seeds floating down. Damselflies screwed all the time, floating by tail to tail, and the lacewing and mayfly all broke out fine in their time. But now I'm off my story and the chits. I've begun to think of the chits as pieces of evidence, like in a detective novel, to be numbered, catalogued, and put in order. I never counted them up that year, the year the chits fell so heavy, but maybe there were ten altogether.
Most people collect evidence to solve puzzles outside their lives.
I need it to solve my own life. I appear to have a problem with memory. I know now that none of what happened was Jeremy's fault, even if he was a screwball. It's just that I wasn't meant for marriage, especially to someone like Jeremy, or living that kind of life. The life where you write your books in a studio in the afternoons after a morning jog and a trip to the spa.