Night

"I haven't had a cigarette in three and a half weeks," she tells me. We're sitting on the deck looking at Venus up there, brighter than any airliner.

I tell her that's wonderful, I'm truly jealous. I've quit three times so far but can't manage to stay the course. I ask her how she managed, where she found the strength, and she tells me it was probably the move: she feels renewed, made over into a different woman. New attitudes, new memories.

"Do you miss Tara?" I ask again.

"Some," she tells me. "The people, the food, the beer. And maybe the cactus."

It's been more than a year, I observe, and she's never brought the subject up. It's something she'd rather put behind her.