They say we are what we love. I love solitude. Fog slipping in over the cliff like a luxury car with no lights. The marshmallow skies of early autumn. Words arranged in perfect order on the page, with a loveliness and lilt you wouldn’t change if your life depended on it. The twinkle in an old man’s eyes. Thistles and cucumbers and Scotch kisses. And Tom Pickett.

Yes. I did love Tom Pickett. Still do, I guess you could say. Though he’s gone now.

I’ve been single for—oh, a while. Had a perfectly good husband, three perfectly good kids. Still have the kids, in a manner of speaking. Not within hollering distance, though. Not even close.

Tom Pickett, now, he might be close. Has to be, I’m thinking, to have got here in the first place.

My husband, well, he’s gone on to heaven. Or maybe not. He never did make it clear to me where he was going. That was part of his power over me.

Thistles, now, they are what they are. They’re pretty, but you know you’ve got to keep your distance. That’s what I was never sure about with Jay.

The thing that’s bothering me about Tom Pickett is, I thought it was different with him. I thought—no, didn’t think—knew—that we had a special friendship. Well, not at first. But I mean as things developed. Let me tell you bout it.