Phone call from a man telling me my best friend, his wife, just died. He sounds vaguely cheery. A couple of weeks ago, Nan told me he wouldn't notice if she were dead. Then she had elective stomach surgery-one post op shot for pain, and she was gone. A massive fuck up. Coma, brainstem damage, never woke. Routine surgery. So tough, so fragile.

I'm crying and calling the computer store about the 5th or 6th time today, and they put me on hold, telling me finally, "You have the wrong department." I must tell the story again to someone else. I want a battery. I'm holding, in the background is Muzak; "Do you want to die" is playing-a refrain. It sounds like a sick version of a Beatles song. Finally, they are singing about angels, after asking over and over, "Do you want to die?"

The first person on stage is about 35 and heavy around the midriff. Her auburn hair is lank, no style, green, calf-high flat-heeled boots. Homely, generous looking. The men are leaning forward giving her dollars; she tucks the bills into a garter belt. I could beat this, I thought. The ceiling is low. Soon I learn most every woman touches it, holds it like the hand of a deity-support from above.

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Mike, I had always wanted to short sheet his bed with velvet in a majestic color. Would this be a hostile or loving act? He was definitely my pinup.

Christy Sheffield Sanford, Copyright © 1996.