one: choosing joy

Darling Lulu,

Well, I arrived. (Obviously, since I’m writing this.) You would not believe the time I had — trains, planes, automobiles, indeed.

Très amusant.

The house is a wreck, of course. There’s an actual hole in the kitchen floor. I put a rubber mat over it to keep out the drafts and rodents, and try not to step on it. Much.

Milk is delivered here, can you believe it?! Fresh, raw, jersey cow milk, straight to my front door. Muy deliciosa. Butter, too!

Henry stopped by yesterday. He sends his regards. Don’t laugh. He still limps, poor man, from when you hit him with the Peugeot. Feel guilty? Don’t. He forgives you, of course, he’s Henry.

Marianna lent me a spare bicycle until I can find a good used one of my own. Fingers crossed.

Please send the following:

  • sunflower seeds (to plant, not eat)
  • those Italian sardines I love
  • whiskey (Irish, per favore)
  • good sturdy upholstery fabric, indigo if you can find it, to match the curtains… although now that I think of it, I may switch those out to a simple white cotton… hmmm…

Marz gave me the most wonderful love seat, but the pattern is appalling. You would retch, darling, really.

Thank you, Lulu, not just for the gear, but for the gumption you instilled in me, to take this beach house for the duration. You are (¡de veras!) absolutely right: solitude solitude solitude. I can almost hear myself think. Ahhhh.

Choosing joy,
*Queenie*

PS: This just in: Marguerite is here — merde! More later.
PPS: Happy New Year! X.O.Q.

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