Last night, it was just me & Jane, and we had the best time. We went out to eat early at a fancy restaurant where we had the usual: Jane had buttered cappellini, and I had tomato soup. Then we went to Whole Foods in search of marshmallows. At home, we impaled the marshmallows on chopsticks and roasting them over a candle. Then a friend stopped by, in desperate need of black Mary Janes, and Jane graciously offered hers. (Well, more or less graciously. I'm still really proud of her, though.) We watched TV until really late and then we went to bed.
And then, this morning, I caught Jane sitting on the floor of her room, writing in her diary.
"Whatcha writin?" I ask, and then regret it, because I don't want to be intrusive. But I have to say something...I'm so charmed to see her sitting there, lost in her own world, scribbling like you-know-who.... Could it be? Is she writing ... A poem? A novel? The Next Great American Novel? Is she, at this very moment, penning the Elusive Giant Squid of American Literature?
"D-O-G," she says, matter-of-factly. "Dog."
Oh. Yes. Gotta start somewhere.
