Noell comes over at nine with two fresh cups of jumbo-sized caffeine. We sit on my patio while she holds the tarot cards. It is the first time she’s been at my house, but a long time since I have loved her as part of the tribe. It is about time and seems apropos as I read her destiny: aloneness, ridding the mind of pattern and rejection, absorbing from the source and breakthrough. I can’t help but squeal as card by card promises the best for her, a reading that will stick regardless of her ego’s intentions. That’s the kind of friendship I want to have: nine a.m. on Sunday mornings under the sun with goose bumps formulating on my arms.
We have a dinner for the opera guild at the gallery and the acoustics are perfect as we watch the Basquiat truck explode behind us. Meat that falls off the bone and chocolate sex for dessert and arias and duos by emerging voices that echo among the acoustics like deep birds in thick flight.
As I pull into my driveway at the end of the night, my friends honk in their BMW sports car out front. It’s Nell and Ryan on their way back from a birthday dinner. They jump out for a minute’s worth of hugs and throw a big hunk of chocolate cake on a ripped cardboard box top into my hands. I give it to my daughter who greets me at the front door. She is in green stripes and limping from the marathon she ran earlier.