It’s 38 degrees and there’s a forest fire smoking just over the ridge of the mountains behind us. It’s too hot to walk to the pool. But the wind has picked up and that might mean we can get a draft going in the house, cool it down enough to be able to sleep tonight. You turn to me and say, ‘I’m looking forward to watching the Lubitsch film.’
A phone rings and you pick it up and it’s Bruce, stoned and sunburned, from Los Angeles, who tells you he’s sorry. He tells you he’s sorry for not being here, at the house, with you.
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