A Bit More Detail

I have been safely installed in the boglike seclusion of the windowless pit at chez selkie. Being sixteen and Subaru-capable, my godson met me at the Metro; his hair this trip is layered like the red and violet of shifting electromagnetic waves. I have never really spent enough time in D.C. proper to map it like New York, but I have gained enough knowledge of its transit system to help a stranger purchase their fare card when the machine was confusing. I got in with time to eat the smoked salmon sandwich I hadn't managed on the train and was additionally treated to tinned mussels with sweet pepper and seaweed chips and some kind of electrolyte solution I was in apparent dire need of, since it tasted sickeningly sweet to me instead of like the Dead Sea. Thank you again to everyone who helped with the rollercoaster expense of my antibiotics. As far as I can tell, the sole fixed plans for this weekend beyond sleeping and not needing a screen to hang out with the mother of my godchild are Project Hail Mary (2026) and Kol Nidre.

Backwards in the rust and concrete photofit of railway mornings, I am on the Amtrak Regional, pulling out of South Station in pursuit of the D.C. metro area. The clouds are ocean-tufted through the catenaries. The rowhouse channel of brick has the desert-rose warmth of ashcan paintings. I am hoping to sleep in the afternoon, since I have not in so many nights.

Contrary to the assurance I was given two days ago after an exhaustive number of calls, my insurance refused to cover the last two-sevenths of my course of antibiotics without which I cannot kick a major infection out of my system and for which it acknowledges there is no alternate treatment. It cost a penny short of seven hundred dollars to pay for the necessary four days out of pocket. It took me until three in the morning to establish this fact with the all-night pharmacy and until seven-thirty to be sure there was no recourse. In the understanding that everyone right now is strictly from hunger, spatch has a ko-fi and anything that can be donated would be appreciated beyond belief.

At least two days ago I was also at SRV with rushthatspeaks for our sixteenth anniversary observed. We sat under the incandescent strings of their brick-framed patio and according to our tradition ordered the Arsenale, their Venetian-style shared menu that has never failed to wow us and this time was no different, from the brine-black crostini tufted with salt-white baccalà and the corn-chowder arancini over a hilarious deli-smear of mortadella mousse through the basil-drizzled salad of thick summer-sweet red and yellow tomatoes and the liquidly tender mussels in a Calabrian chili stew into the showstopper of their in-house pasta, agnolotti packed tight with earthy mushrooms under a consommé pour of spruce and finally a chunkily tossed sugo finto with black kale which made me remember how much I like other kinds of bean than black. For my one cocktail, I ordered the vodka-based Blue Seas because of the wakame and was entertained that its blueberry infusion turned the vermouth madder-red. Rush-That-Speaks had the Erbaria Spritz for its rhubarb and the Ryan's Saltata for the novelty of its IPA. The tartly lime and pooled blackberry semifreddo came as the dessert, but the strawberry stracciatella gelato was a gift for our anniversary. We talked about driving to the sea, but instead repaired to the apartment so that my husband could show me the next four episodes of Call of the Night (2022–). It took a fair amount of waving, but I remain proud of having parallel-parked on the street in South Boston.

A year ago I was still in hospital. I have so much trouble with the idea that I should have survived. I will see my godson this evening. Stripey the Fifteenth, last of the summer's dynasty, flew yesterday from my hand.