Work l**t moved into her bone marrow. Here is where art is made, in the studio of your body. She said to Johnny and Val, “Back in a minute. Washroom.”
She walked through the atmosphere that Andy had walked through, the belligerent, the war resister. As she turned the corner, she saw he was not there. Down a soft gravel area sat a short row of motel rooms. Rustic, peeling, no one around. She was, in fact, at the washroom, a wooden addition at the side of the building. The mirror inside was cracked, rusting at the edges, with rainbow stains. Vivienne took a pic of herself in the mirror: pink leather, long camera snout, cheeks as blotched as a bad mirror face.
She peed, and opened the door. Andy stood outside. “What are you doing here?”
She stepped close to him. “I had a funeral to attend.
