I smelled Tanzania before I saw her. She was warm bodies and smoke and sweet milk. I closed my eyes and willed the scent to seep into my pores and melt into my hair. This smell was not familiar and that was all I wanted in those days: the conscious act of not being reminded.
Then, I was in love with the doctor. He wasn’t my doctor, just a doctor. You know, the kind you meet at a whiskey bar when it’s early on Friday, and you are off work and so is he, and you both realize that your work is just words. Your work is writing them down, which is easy, because backspace.
I wish I could tell you I was writing this from the back of an elephant, because that’s how I hope you picture me while I’m in Africa. Either on the back of an elephant or in the gold light of a sunset, with a big, juicy, grapefruit sky.