I sit with espresso in a cup, I bought the other day, made in Portugal. I used to have plates fired in Portugal. What having had plates from Portugal has to do with having a coffee cup made in Portugal is beyond me. I am having a piece of pastry leftover from her birthday two days ago. I am having half of a sfogliatella, cut as I did with a knife from Germany; the pastries were bought at Villabate Bakery. I make more coffee to have with the remaining piece of sfogliatella. I remember the sun setting yesterday, crimson. I recall the blood oranges I bought at Sal’s fruit market on 18th Avenue last week. They had just come in from Sicily. What do I recall? How many more recollections of her on the shore in the mornings in Montauk with coffee and croissants can I play as silent motion pictures (–I see Louise Brooks, who looks nothing like she does, even when her hair was short)? I do not ask. I have a postcard photo of her. I keep it in an old cigar box. I use them for bookmarks. I remember the other day having remembered that I thought Louise Brooks was pretty. I have no idea how I am going to face death.