They were flirting on the beach.

Lenu getting tanner and sexier every day.

Feeling herself.

I was feeling myself, basking in the muted midday sunlight on the Rittenhouse lawn, waiting on the shroomies to start hitting. Poncho-wrapped backpack beneath my butt, to prevent body-heat loss to the ground.

“Just like me and V!” I thought after reading the part about Lenu getting the letter from Lila.

About how all the writing Lenu, the protagonist/writer, had ever written was, ultimately, mimicry of her bestie Lila’s writing.

How unbridled and unaware of being art, and the best kind, Lila’s writing felt.

V was whom I sent my first book, on Bolaño and the Juárez femicides, the minute I finished it.

Not published, but completed ‘book.’

Semblance of.

The one to tackle all the Qs.

About why men were men, women women, and fathers rapists.

Thought he’d be impressed.

If by nothing else, by its ambition.

Ninety-K words, 12 monthly chapters, set and written over a year.

But no.

He’d evaded me when I’d harassed him about it.

Had said he was still thinking on it. Still digesting.

But after X times of harassing him, he’d caved and admitted he only got 11 pages in before bowing out.

This right after I’d finished trying to walk across country.

Failing to.

Back home barista-ing.

Renting a room out of my high school home.

V living out of his Vanagon.

One-upping me.

Showing me how it was done.

How to live outdoors successfully.

Sustainably.

Ex bae, after saving my broken ass on day 100 of walking, at the base of the Rockies, was living over the hill in Redwood City.

V’s (now ex) bae living in Santa Cruz.

V leaning on her somewhat to sustain the façade of out-here-ness. For showers, etc.

Not admitting it.

Me flexing like I’d walked across, even though I hadn’t.

Basking in others’ convincings that Still! 100 days! To the Rockies!

Even though. Still. I hadn’t.

I’d gotten saved.

Both of us flexing, leaning on our baes, jerking each other off for how woke we were.

How Out Here.

Except not, somehow, when it came to my Bolaño book.

“The writing is clunky. He tries to say too much in each sentence,” I deduced he’d said to S, his college friend and acquaintance of mine, when S commented, on a blog post I’d posted about my walk: “Love this! His writing isn’t clunky! He doesn’t try to say too much every sentence!”

•

Got a ding right when I’d forgotten I was waiting on a ding.

After I’d stopped tasting the shroomies’ aftertaste.

Chipotle on 15th, five blocks over.

Mounted the steed and started pedaling, wobbling initially.

Weaving through picnickers on the grass, in the square.

Insinuated myself into eastbound Locust traffic, behind a 21 bus.

Sustained-exhaling out of my nose so as to not inhale its fumes.