A form appeared in the front door and the dogs ceased their clamor instantly and trotted off like two spring lambs. The woman left the doorway and moved toward me. She took me in her arms and hugged me. She smelled of roses.

Throwing me a shy smile and taking me by the hand ’Gitte said, “Let me show you around!” She pulled me toward the back of the house, like a schoolgirl eager for flirtatious mischief. We turned the corner to discover cages and fenced-in areas beside a weed-choked subsistence garden. I learned that all of this was housing for a medium-sized menagerie. ’Gitte introduced me to her pony, her turkey, her rabbits, her six dogs, each by name. Dozens of cats, unlike the pony, turkey and rabbits, were semi-free and anonymous. ’Gitte proudly showed me the reeking manure heap banked up against an abandoned car. I wondered where the marijuana field was hidden, but did not ask.

We entered the house proper. The place smelled like a pet shop/ health food store combo, incense and dry herbs and wet fur. An oat-colored macrame weaving hung above a dusty bookshelf upon which stood a well-thumbed copy of The Road Less Traveled. ’Gitte doesn’t drink coffee, but she had picked some up just for my visit, recalling my fondness for caffeine. She peppered me with questions about my life and my work and before long I was babbling, providing much too much information. As I spoke, she fixed me with a loving gaze, as if she had been waiting for years to hear every word of it. A dog bounded in and ’Gitte stroked him, while keeping all her attention on me.

Over the organic lunch of bean paste slathered onto thick slices of homemade bread (topped with alfalfa sprouts), I picked up more information regarding John’s absence. He had gone in for observation because he had become forgetful and now the stay had been extended. I inquired whether a visit would make sense, trying to get a bead on whether John was still angry at me. ’Gitte said that she was sure John would love a visit from me. Her blue eyes twinkled. I resisted the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek. I wanted simply to take her hand, just hold it for a while.

We ran out of things to talk about. It became clear that the only way to get closer to ’Gitte was to go spend some time with her spouse and then report back. ’Gitte wrote the address on the back of an envelope in a perfect cursive. I appraised this woman one more time. Her hair was now a whitish blond. There was a slight darkness under the eyes and her smile was more weary than bright. But she was in good shape, thin, lively. Her eyes sparkled with life. She was who she was and would ever be.