THE EPISCOPAL VICAR decides to construct a Celtic burial ground on a rise / knoll near her parsonage. Somehow, the parts have fallen on her: incredible stone crosses and monoliths, etc.
She engages my Lady of Gardenias to help on the stonework.
Getting there. we keep coming upon the rotary in Kittery, although the Vicar's house is suspiciously like a restaurant at a rotary in Manchester in size and placement. More than once, I miss the right exit (or nearly do) – again, the tension of responsibility.
I remember raising Tibetan prayer flags in that cemetery-garden, too.
Rotary, or traffic circle, I now hear as "rosary."
WITH MY LADY, ARGUING ABOUT where the town of PHARES was – are we trying to get there, together. What state?
I awaken and search my U.S. atlas: it's nowhere!
I HAVE TO PICK HER UP AT THE AIRPORT. (Hey! That element again.) Take her to a ranch house, someplace we've rented. Lots of other people are around, as in-laws or whatever.
Not sure now whether she had a tattoo – think it was a fake, to goof on me. Washed off.
She has two babies now, the newest a curly haired boy with brown/black hair, who PURRS as I'm stroking his head, "putting him down."
I'm building a wood fire in the fireplace while the phone's ringing. "Will somebody answer that?" but all too busy.
Chaos! Chaos of her!
Every time I get near her, she backs off. Eludes me in the social scene, whether party or family gathering. Yet shortly before she's to leave – and shortly after I concluded it wasn't worth my effort to continue – she confronts me, invites me, draws me into a small room – a closet with a window, actually (like my bedroom in the bungalow long before I met her!) – and opens her blouse, asking me to caress her.
AS I THEN SEE, we're in her apartment, also shared with a newspaper office – overlooking the workspace, like the residence in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
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