An outing that ends with a bronze pope

She was picking up her rentacar -- who knew
so many companies dont like you driving into
the states. I made her two sandwiches and
a tub of mixed olives, I cubed up half a papaya
and squeezed a lime over it. I washed two
green apples with dish detergent. I put
all that in a sack and sat the sack beside
her luggage.
Then she left, honking and very silver.
I took the streetcar down to the publisher's
for someone wanted to interview us about
the huge posters with writers on them.
I, of course, love the posters. They are
hilarious. I have tried to adopt the
expression many times since. I regret
cutting my hair. But it will all come.
Then I buy some underwear and socks.
A blog is perhaps the place to mention
new underwear and new socks. There are
nine depressing things in a life, and
old underwear is one of them.
So there I am, happy to return to
an empty apartment, when H shows up.
With his, okay, partner. I just
deleted wife and injected partner.
They insist, yes I must, please
come with them. And so I'm drinking
champagne and meeting the visiting
author, and there's a woman in a green
shirt who I keep seeing at all these
functions and I now associate her
with the public side of books. The
champagne is almost green. It looks
like olive oil. Then the man who I like
to drink with every eight months, he
asks if I want to size up the red
seats in a bar just zigzag away. Do I?
Or will I not get home for ten days.
I must get home and try on the underwear.
I was thinking about giving the author
some underwear, but he didnt look trim.
I didnt want to embarrass anyone.
I found the beautiful streetcar and
it hauled itself west and north and
I woke to the flashbulbs of forty
people staring at the bronze pope.