Of course this town has its “nicer” areas. There, people live in well-tended homes with lovely gardens. They drive recent-model cars and complain about the cost of living and any number of other legitimate gripes. People become ill there too. They know heart ache and disappointments, tragedies great and small. I don’t spend much time in those neighborhoods so I don’t have much to say about, for or against them.
The rental agency’s handyman called, late yesterday afternoon. Will come by later this morning. Visions of a secure mailbox and a working shower take up front row space in my head. Meanwhile, objects continue to clump together in odd assortments, or migrate from floor to floor. More wall art finds a resting place. Same with books (now tending to accumulate by bed side – what else is new).
Strange, this business of now having what I can legitimately call a small body of work, none of which has found grace in the eyes of the handful of agents I’ve queried. Perhaps the work is of no interest to those whose lives run along different paths than mine. Perhaps I don’t know how to sell my wares. Whatever.
Characters, meeting for the first time, or meeting up again after a hiatus. Same town. Changed circumstances.
Hautvoir. Then, and now.