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A girl I know, Loretta, likes to be a stranger in a strange land. She has languages and passports and her stories are always setting setting setting.
On Loretta's last jaunt to a European Union country she fit well on a roof top. She hung clothes in the night air and looked down at the building holding her apartment underneath her feet. It was, she noticed, tucked into the city streets webbing out around her. She snapped out a clean shirt and watched the fine residue of america scatter over her last new skyline.
Underneath the roof was a woman wondering whether to love Loretta for a month or forever. She made tea and lifted the tiny bag up then down again, staring at the ceiling.
Loretta cinched the basket into her hip and smiled to be going downstairs, inside, to touch the arm of the woman waiting in the kitchen.
A law changed.
Loretta married a woman, a different woman, for a visa. (Scams do not change.)
Now there will be more cups of tea. And, with any luck, one happy day there will be a divorce.
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