The actor from The Danish Girl is at a community center pool, which is also an airport. Maybe we are in California. I'm swimming and my friend and former paramour dives into the pool, hands me a letter, it's typed on an old Italian typewriter, an Olivetti. He smoothes the hair over my forehead, kisses my brow. I miss him as he swims away. The actor sits in a lounge chair. I put my hand on his cheek, tell him I prefer to see him dressed up as a girl. He blushes, bows his head.
It's dark. I'm in an outdoor airport waiting for someone (I don't know who) in the snow. I don't have a coat on, but feel warm and comfortable. My grandma Dot is with me. She asks me questions about what's been going on in my life. Work. Art. Knee. Volcanos. Mothering. I tell her very little. I tell her that I love her and ask her to climb inside a black SUV with me. The seats are leather. The steering wheel is cold. It smells like a combination of stale cigarettes and farts - the smell of my father's cars. I start the car. My mother is in the back seat. Grandma Dot is in the front seat. The car moves forward, onto ice, onto snow and into the face of a mountain. I pull up on the wheel and somehow save us all from crashing.
