I found this typewriter by the side of our road last week while I was walking back from town. It’s electric and works. I don’t know why anyone would throw it away except if they just purchased a personal computer and figured some person who needed an electric typewriter might come by and say, “Hey!” I didn’t need a typewriter, but I did say “Hey” when I saw this machine. It’s cream-colored, and has a sort of nubbly texture to its hard surface. I lugged it up half a mile of dirt road. I couldn’t believe it when I plugged it in, pushed the switch, and it hummed— a strong, manly hum. The sound of it reminds me of JP when we first met. He seemed like nothing could knock him down or even surprise him. He knows how much salt to put into the pasta water and when the noodles are cooked without tasting, without a watch. Whenever I ask him how he knows, he just taps his temple with his forefinger, squinting his eyes and smiling. He does that gesture a lot. He makes another, similar gesture, with two flat fingers tapping against his temple while frowning. This means that I have done something stupid or nuts.

At the moment, I am sitting here in my nightgown typing, and my elbows are sort of clamped to my sides so my tits will somehow be held up, which is hopeless, but I can’t go upstairs and get a bra because JP is on the floor next to the chest of drawers. It isn’t even light yet.