I said, “I could never be a writer. I mean a good one. I don’t have the talent. I could probably be a bad one, lots of people seem to be. But I could never do what you do.”

“You wouldn’t want to live this way.”

I shook my head. I would. I’d want it more than anything.

“You think writing poems has something to do with talent? Not much at all. It has to do with pure, stubborn determination to keep doing it, to not be discouraged by the thousand thousand things that are meant to discourage you. Nobody cares if you do it or not. No guarantees that anybody is going to read any of it.”

“But that hasn’t stopped you.”

“Because I have been absolutely selfish about my art. Do you know how hard it is for a woman to be selfish? Not to give in to her own nature?”

She stopped then, and neither of us spoke. I didn’t understand her, at least not until much later. Below us on the road, a car accelerated up the curves, trailing music. Then it was quiet again. She said, “Please don’t worry. About anything. Least of all this silly conference.”

“Can I think about it some more?”

“Of course.” She straightened herself and stepped back from the truck, smiling, already distancing herself, stepping back into herself. “I expect there’s another week or so before anything gets decided.”

“I wanted to ask you about something different.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to San Diego. If you’re going to be part of the Institute.”

“Ah,” she said, and now she was entirely remote again, although still smiling. “That’s been taken under advisement. One more thing you don’t have to worry about.”

Taken under advisement, meaning, she wouldn’t say. Don’t worry, meaning, none of my business. I started the truck again and headed down the lane. In the rearview mirror, Viridian turned toward the house and out of my sight.

I was about halfway to downtown Fairfax when I saw Oscar shambling along the side of the road, and I slowed to see if he wanted a ride. “Thanks,” he said, hauling himself into the passenger seat. A gust of heat and, I couldn’t help noticing, sweaty odor accompanied him.

“You look terrible,” I told him, and he said “Yeah, so what.” But he did. His long hair was unwashed and stringy, and his big, loose face was mottled with uneven sunburn. I wouldn’t dream of saying anything so disrespectful to Viridian. But Oscar was different. He all but invited you to participate in his problems.

“Seriously, are you all right?”

“Seriously, I need a drink. Come with me.”