I run myself a bath, as I've told her I would. I don't answer the phone, or I'll answer only when I feel like it. Neat, to soak in the bath, soak in silky smooth skin for a while with my scars in which the river of hopes runs around the world full of beauty and surprise, galore, plans and days that leave us behind, with memories, including good ones that even last. She says I should drop by or she will come to a dark and smokey place with me to share in the echo of my grandmother's voice, who knows she has been lonely, abandoned at times, long enough periods for me to understand, after half a year, why a girl, 26 and said to be nice was looking for friends through an advertisement, and how I called too late to get an answer, and the soothing ruby of the water, just don't break in the door, it's been broken before, and you might not be able to fix it again.