I remember my friend MaryAnn's charcoal drawings on a page like swipes of death and anger in her heart -- ragged shapes that she would later frame or tear up.

She was on the floor with blackness and fury spread around her.

I said, MaryAnn? I want to see him.

Her hand stopped jabbing the paper.

MaryAnn? I wanted to talk to you first before I do anything.

OK, she finally said.

In a borrowed car on a summer night I went to find a guy she used to date. Next to his mailbox on a sandy Long Island lane I breathed in salty air and saw shadows falling across the bay. I thought of my friend MaryAnn, of desire, and I left a note there.

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From inside a pocket of stolen time she looked at her demon. Don't lose me, she said.

I won't.

He breathed unfamiliar words against her ear and the world melted in beautiful colors.

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My words are not so easy lately. I am going to drink a little wine and think about things that haunt me.