Zoe and Sophia are two single women, BFFs for thirty years, and months ago they found themselves unexpectedly cast into a world of chaos and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They’ve heard and are grateful for the advice from all who were willing to help them. But the time for advice has passed as they launch into a new phase as the Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being. Here is their final adventure of the first “season” of their re-creation.

Tiny white lights strung around budding branches winked as a gusty wind blew through the outdoor café at dusk. Some happy-hour patrons danced to the band’s music booming from the small stage. Several people wore festive masks, which waitresses placed on tables when they delivered drinks. Others laughed as they sat leaning intimately into one another. Longing eyes traveled up and down newcomers who walked into the café on the warm May evening. Self-conscious young women stood in clusters, playing with their hair, picking at their clothes. False bravado spilled from the lips of young men as they spoke too loudly and swaggered in circles around women they were too timid to approach. Young and old sensed the sultry nights of summer to come, nights of expectation, nights that would stir people to abandon themselves to the white heat of passion, grasping for completion through connection. Suddenly, a second, prolong gust of wind blew in showers, and as with the end of a film, the music stopped, people ran for shelter, and the sensuous spell snapped shut.

Zoe and Sophia leapt from their seats then huddled with the rest of the crowd inside the café
“I’m hungry,” said Zoe, tapping Sophia’s arm. “Let’s go get Mexican.”
“Okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Sophia.
“You look like you’re gonna cry.”
“Nah. I’m just tired.”
“Do you wanna go home,” said Zoe.
“To what? To a house filled with packed boxes, rolled up rugs and furniture lined up, ready to be loaded into a U-Haul?” Go home? I have no home. I have no marriage. I have no definition. I have no life that I recognize. I have only ghosts that scream at me from the packed boxes, scepters haunting me from an identity that no longer exists. My life is shit, Zoe.”

“Fuck sake, Sophie. Buck up. Instead of thinking about what you’ve lost, try focusing on things you have to be grateful for, things that give you joy.”
“That’s the worst part, Zoe. I might have lost my joy.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to recapture it.”
“I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

“Sophie, you’re still grieving. And you start a whole new wave of it every time that prick Marty re-enters your life. I can’t believe he showed up on your doorstep again. Well, at least your move to Florida will end that cycle.” Zoe was referring to Sophia’s husband who walked out of the marriage eight months before in the throes of an affair with his predatory girlfriend, Fugly, an affair Sophia finally forced Marty to confess. Twice Marty came home since then, only to flee back to Fugly as soon as he and Fugly patched up their blowout.

“It’s not only about Marty crashing into my life again, Zo. Last week I didn’t fall for his shit. He cried for hours, bemoaning the life he cast aside, and I comforted him through every word and stomached the self-pity he spewed. But do you know that he actually had the audacity to blame me for the dissension with Fugly?”
“Yeah, you told me already.”
“I’m so glad I slept at your house for the time he was at home.”
“No shit.”
“But honestly, Zo, apart from Marty’s recent bullshit, I think what unhinges me has more to do with the change of seasons. I keep sensing last summer, when the project was still going on, and I knew Marty was having an affair, but he lied about it. I was not only tortured by his cruelty, I suffered a complete emotional collapse, and it’s taken me months to crawl out of the black hole. But now, I feel as if I’ve fallen back in.”

Sophia was referring to a project Fugly approached Marty to become part of two years before. Marty told Sophia that Fugly had since admitted that she fell for him “on first sight.” So the project, building for Marty a state-of-the-art sports facility, which would have fulfilled Marty’s life-long dream, became the vehicle to hook Marty, and Fugly succeeded. Although Fugly’s wealthy husband offered to finance the project, his resources couldn’t compare to those of his father. So, Fugly’s legendary father-in-law, Famous Father, put up the money. However, when Famous Father learned of the affair, he ended the project, and Fugly moved out of the marital home, leaving behind a husband and three young children, whom she saw on a visitation schedule. But since Fugly signed no prenup when she married, she still enjoyed living lavishly on her husband’s money. And so did Marty.

“Sophie, let’s go to Ixtapa Cantina and flirt with the Mexican waiters. That always cheers us up.”
“Okay, Zo.”
A few minutes later the women swept into their favorite Mexican restaurant. Since Zoe and Sophia were regulars, the maitre‘d clamored for dirty dishes to be cleared from their favorite booth, and two Margaritas were placed with a flourish in front of the women before they had time to order.

“Should we toast to your divorce being final,” asked Sophia.
“Yes, I think we should,” said Zoe. “But you know, I take no pleasure in hurting George, although it does feel good to be free finally.”
“Do your kids know yet?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t spoken to them about it, but George might have.”
“Do the kids know you’re moving back to Boston?”
“Yes.”
“What’s their reaction?”
“Everyone’s pretty worried about what will happen to George.”

“I feel for them,” said Sophia, “but I guess that’s up to George to figure out.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Have you set a moving date?”

Just then Zoe’s eyes misted up.
“What’s wrong, Zo?”
“Whenever I think about us being so far apart it makes me cry.”
“I know. Me too.”
“I plan to move right after you leave for Florida. There’s no way I want to be in New Hampshire without you here. Sophie, won’t you reconsider moving to Boston with me instead of moving to Florida?”
“Zo, I just don’t think Boston is far enough away from Marty. Plus you know I hate winters. I’m a Californian, not a Yankee like you.”Just then Jose, a new waiter the women didn’t know well, appeared to take their orders.

After ordering, Zoe said, “But in Boston you would be so much closer to your kids.” Zoe was referring to Sophia’s fabulous son Colin who lived in Boston and to her amazing daughter Poppy, son-in-law Fonzi, and granddaughter Lily who lived in New Hampshire near Sophia and Zoe.

“It breaks my heart to think about leaving them, Zo, but I’m running for my life. And that house in Florida just feels right. From the first moment I saw it in January, the place called to me. It’s exactly what I felt the first time I saw my house here. I remember looking at the arbors over the outside doors, crowded with wisteria and roses, and I just knew it was meant to be my home.”
“Will you put up arbors over the doors in the Florida house?”
“Yeah, but I’ll load them with bougainvillea.”
“Sounds pretty.
“Promise me you’ll visit often.”

“As often as I can. Hey, those two guys at the bar are checking us out. Don’t turn around.”
Sophia turned around. Then she turned back to Zoe.
“Nah.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not worth the effort. Why would we bother meeting men anyway? Neither of us is gonna be living here a week from now, Zo.”
“Good point.” Just then Juan, their favorite waiter, placed two more Margaritas on the table even though their first drinks were still nearly full. Zoe gave Juan a questioning look, and he turned and pointed to the two men at the bar. Zoe looked over at the men and smiled. Sophia didn’t turn around but watched Zoe raise her hand to invite the men over. Sophia grabbed her hand, but it was too late. The men were already on their way. Sophia glared at Zoe as she shoved Sophia over to make room for the men in the circular booth.

Sophia threw the men a lame smile as they sat down, and then her nerves flared up, and she reached across the table for her glass of water. Unfortunately, her hand bumped the fresh Margaritas, dumping them into the laps of the newcomers. In a panic, Sophia grabbed her napkin, jumped up and ran to the other side of the booth. She began sopping the fluid from the men’s pants with one hand while waving with the other for Juan to come help clean up the mess. Juan, accustomed to Sophia’s spills, leapt toward the table with bar towels. But by that time, Sophia was on her knees, head bent into the lap of one of the men, so she didn’t see Juan. Just as he reached the table, Sophia stood up in Juan’s path, tripping Juan, who fell across the table and landed with his head in Zoe’s lap.

“Huh, Sophie?  Really?” said Zoe shaking her head as she looked down at Juan. She was afraid Juan might have bumped his head on the table so hard that he passed out between her legs.
“Sorry, Zo,” said Sophia quietly, trying to regain her composure.
Just then a stunning, young pregnant Mexican woman ran up to the table crying and rambling in Spanish. She glared at Zoe and tugged on Juan’s leg.
In English she said, “What have you done to my Juan?”
Zoe stared at her in horror as the woman reached out and pulled Zoe’s blond hair. Zoe tried to roll Juan off of her lap as he struggled to stand up.
“You are trying to steal my Juan,” shrieked the woman, “Don’t touch him.” Between being shoved by Zoe and pulled by his wife, Juan finally managed to stand. He apologized profusely and hustled his wife from the table.

As Juan staggered off, the heads of the two men dropped downward, their eyes glued to their wet crotches. Pretending as if nothing had happened, Zoe greeted them brightly. The men looked up into Zoe’s smiling face but were silent. Just as Zoe was about to launch on her usual ploy of asking the men all about themselves, Jose placed two large plates of food in front of the women.  Zoe ignored hers and kept talking, but Sophia dug in, thinking that eating might erase the vision of her mishap. Zoe leaned into the men pouring on every ounce of charm she could muster. Sophia’s cheeks filled to capacity as she shoveled an entire tamale into her mouth. The men gave each other the look then in unison stood and reached out to shake hands with Zoe and Sophia, telling the women it was nice to have met them.

“Ni do mee you do,” Sophia boomed with a smile as gobs of tamale shot out of her mouth and landed on the wet crotch of the man standing closest to her. She watched the blob stick for a minute before it fell to the floor. Sophia’s teeth were coated in green tomatillo salsa which dribbled down her chin. She tried to wipe it away with her napkin, but her hair was plastered to her chin, so she used her hand to whip back her hair and then reached out for a shake. Both men looked at her green fingers and quickly withdrew their hands, waving instead, as they backed away from the table then fled out the door.

“That went well,” said Sophia.

“Not too bad,” sighed Zoe.

“Did you catch their names?”

“Fuck sake, Sophie, did you hear me catch their names?”

“Hey, it’s just as well. I need to get to Barnes & Noble before it closes at ten.”

“What do you need there?”
“I gotta check out the DVD bargain table. I have now watched every episode of The L Word. Twice.”
“Does this mean you’re off your lesbian kick?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“For awhile there you were consumed by all things lesbian.”
“I was not. Those characters kept me company in the middle of the night. I can’t concentrate to read when I awake nearly hysterical. Before I discovered DVDs of television shows, I would just lie for hours in the dark obsessing on Marty.”
“What did you obsess about?”

“Sometimes I pictured him locked between Fugly’s stumpy, misshapen thighs with the purple pimples all over them. He used to tell me how much he loved my long, lean legs. I wondered what he said to her about her thighs. Then I thought about him lying on his pillow and staring at her. She looks like Yeti or some other mythological humanoid creature. I would hear her deep, masculine voice whisper Hallmark sentiments in his ear. And I wondered why he picked her. Then I thought about how he was having his affair with her while I had major surgery and was laid off from my job as a reporter. Of course, then I remembered that she’s younger and rich. At other times I looked over at the hole Marty punched in the wall last summer as he screamed ‘Why can’t you fucking trust me.’ Often I pictured him sneaking out of our bed to have email exchanges with Fugly as soon as he thought I was asleep. Then I thought about the hundreds of text messages they sent to each other when we took Lilly to Europe on vacation last summer, especially the ones he sent at two-thirty in the morning on our wedding anniversary. Then I thought….”

“Enough, Sophie. I get the gist. Hurry up. You’re right. We do need to get to the bookstore before it closes.”
“Well, you asked. Do you wanna hear more?”
Zoe dodged the question by looking around for Juan to bring the check. He was nowhere in sight, but his wife paced back and forth like a livid lioness, guarding the kitchen door.

In Barnes & Noble Sophia found the boxed sets of four seasons of The Closer, at fifty percent off. She snagged them, buying her sanity and a whole new stable of imaginary friends.

“What’s that smell?” asked Sophia on the drive home from Portsmouth.
“Sparky’s in the back. He had an accident.” Sparky was Zoe’s stroke-impaired yellow lab. His unfortunate stroke caused not only incontinence, but the poor thing walked sideways and could not manage stairs or stress.
“Can you sleep at my house tonight, Zo. I don’t wanna be alone.”
“Sure. Do you have any Nutella and Chex Mix to eat in bed?”
“Hello. Is Fugly ugly? Of course I do.”

The minute Zoe and Sophia walked through the door of Sophia’s house, Tolstoy, Sophia’s huge Maine Coon cat hissed at Sparky, who tried to hide behind the women. Sparky pretended to ignore the insult and simply sniffed, as he jutted his chin in the air and rolled his eyes at Voltaire, Sophia’s Border collie. Sparky wondered why Tolstoy had to be such a bastard to him right off the bat, and Voltaire was inclined to agree that Tolstoy did have a short fuse. Voltaire stood up to get some loving from his precious Sophia then he walked over to Tolstoy and herded him into the living room, hoping to cool him down. Sparky, who wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree, thought the other animals were going off to play without him, so he followed them into the living room. That pissed off Tolstoy so much that he took a running leap and landed on Sparky’s back. Sparky yowled and because his stress and incontinence went hand-in-hand, three large turds plopped involuntarily from his bung hole.

“God almighty. There’s that smell again,” cried Sophia.
“I’ll clean it up,” said Zoe as she dashed to the kitchen for cleaning supplies.
“Voltaire can sleep downstairs with Sparky tonight, and Tolstoy can stay upstairs with us. It might be my imagination, but I think there’s friction between them.”
“Could be,” said Zoe absently as she flushed Sparky’s mess down the toilet then headed back to the kitchen. Sparky slunk sideways behind her, wishing he were home alone with his beautiful Zoe instead of stuck here with that bitch Sophia and her ill-tempered cat. Although, when he thought about it, he was pretty happy about spending the night with his best bud, Voltaire.

Sparky stood still a minute in the kitchen after Zoe went back into the dining room. He listened carefully to make sure no one was coming, and then he shoved his face through the swinging doors and slipped into the summer kitchen, where Tolstoy’s cat food and kitty litter lived. It’s hard to tip-toe after a stroke, but as quietly as he could, Sparky snuck up to Tolstoy’s dish and inhaled the kibble. Emboldened, he pranced over to the kitty litter, stuck in his paw, and shuffled the cedar shavings around until he found several cat crap delicacies just waiting to be eaten. Half way through his feast he froze in fright.
“Sparky,” called Zoe. “Where are you?”

Tolstoy knew damn well Sparky’s whereabouts and bolted from Voltaire’s side, racing toward the kitchen. Fearing exposure, Sparky began loping sideways, back toward the dining room. Unfortunately, Zoe and Sophia were standing in their path looking at something on Sophia’s laptop screen, and neither the cat nor the dog paid attention to that fact. Sparky ran headlong into both women from one direction, and Tolstoy tried to leap over them from the other, but he didn’t make it. As a result Zoe and Sophia toppled to the floor in their clumsy attempts to get out of the way of the collision.

“Fuck sake,” said Zoe as she struggled to her feet, “Let’s just go to bed.”
“Ok, Zo,” said Sophia, rubbing the bump on the back of her head.
Upstairs the women changed into night clothes then Zoe perused Sophia’s collection of DVDs of shows, most of which Sophia had never watched until after they went off the air. Zoe dismissed Sex and the City, having seen every episode multiple times. She declined Foyle’s War, Nash Bridges, Prime Suspect, and The Closer because unlike Sophia, Zoe wasn’t a fan of police shows. That left the six seasons of The L Word, which Zoe was so sick of hearing about, she could puke. Without selecting anything, Zoe climbed in bed next to Sophia.

“What do wanna do,” Zoe asked.
“I’m not premiering The Closer until tomorrow night. Let’s watch The L Word.”
“NO,” said Zoe.
“We could go on-line with the Webcam and see if any guys wanna watch us dance.”
“Nah.  That’s not so appealing anymore.”
Sophia thought for a moment and chucked. “You’ve had quite a journey over the past eight months, haven’t you? You started your on-line dating the same week Marty and I split, right?”
“Yeah, I did. But I’m not doing much of that anymore.”
“Do you miss it, Zo?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Unless I’m beading jewelry, I get anxious and sorta lonely, except when I’m with you.”
“Hum. Why did you slow down with the men thing?”
“It stopped feeling good.” Zoe looked pensive for moment then asked, “Do you think I was acting whorish all those months?” Sophia laughed so hard that she snorted. Zoe looked offended. “Nice response, Soph.”
“Power down, Trigger. I’m laughing because you are so far from a ‘whore,’ you have to invent a new word for ‘far.’”
“Meaning?”
“Once you left George, your search for men came from a very old place.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve spent much of your life trying to fill that gaping hole left by your father’s death. On some level, you’re still that vulnerable eight-year-old girl drenched in sorrow. So, whenever you’re lonely, you fall right back into that hole.

“Well, at least now,”  said Zoe. “I’ve discovered all the things I don’t want in a man.”

“And that’s the beauty of growth. You’re not willing to sell yourself short anymore. Hand me the Nutella and a spoon please,” said Sophia as she pushed “play” on the remote. Up popped an episode of The L Word.

“Fuck sake. Do we have to watch this?” asked Zoe as she tossed back a handful of super spicy Chex Mix.”
“You know, if you smear Nutella on the pretzels from the Chex Mix, it’s a good combo,” said Sophia. “Hey, look at that. This is the episode when Bette goes off to a Buddhist monastery after she cheated on Tina seven years into their love affair.”

Zoe watched for a minute then put her chocolate covered spoon and the jar of Nutella back on the bedside table, next to Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart. Pema was an American Buddhist writer Zoe and Sophia adored. “Sophie, do you think lesbians deal with their love and loss differently than anyone else,” she asked, opening the ragged book.
“Nope. People are people. Love and loss are love and loss.  That’s why I like this show. It portrays archetypical human behavior, but emphasizes a female point of view.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Zoe, distracted as she lay on her side, with her head bent into the book. A few minutes later Zoe asked, “Do you mind if I read you a couple of passages?”
“Go ahead,” said Sophia as she clicked “pause” on the remote.

Zoe began reading:
In all kinds of situations we can find out what is true simply by studying ourselves in every nook and cranny, in every black hole and bright spot, whether its murky, creepy, grisly, splendid, spooky, frightening, joyful, inspiring, peaceful, or wrathful. We can just look at the whole thing….When we look into our own hearts and begin to discover what is confused and what is brilliant, what is bitter and what is sweet, it isn’t just ourselves that we’re discovering.  We’re discovering the universe….We discover that everything is awake and everyone…is equally precious and whole and good.  When we regard thoughts and emotions with humor and openness, that’s how we perceive the universe.

To the degree that we look clearly and compassionately at ourselves, we feel confident and fearless about looking into someone else’s eyes….The more we relate to others, the more quickly we discover where we are blocked, where we are unkind, afraid, shut down. Seeing this is helpful, but it is also painful. Often, the only way we know how to react is to use it as ammunition against ourselves. We aren’t kind. We aren’t honest. We aren’t brave….But when we apply the instruction to be soft and nonjudgmental to whatever we see right at that very moment, then this embarrassing reflection in the mirror becomes our friend….That’s the beginning of growing up.

As long as we don’t want to be honest and kind with ourselves, then we are always going to be infants. When we begin just to try to accept ourselves, the ancient burden of self-importance lightens up considerably. Finally, there’s room for genuine inquisitiveness, and we find we have an appetite for what’s out there.

“Well, that’s pretty deep,” said Sophia as she toyed with the remote. “You know what’s strange? I remember reading that material right after my marriage fell apart. When I hit the paragraph about always being an infant until I learned to be kind and honest with myself, I was horrified. I hated reading it. Now, it doesn’t feel so threatening to me.”
“That’s interesting,” said Zoe. “I guess you’ve made some progress yourself in the past eight months.”
“Have I? It’s hard to know.”

“You’ve spent a ton of time alone writing, being introspective, foraging around in every aspect of yourself, swimming in and out of the black hole. You’ve also slowly detached from Marty and the horridness he put you through.”
“Well, a little maybe. I guess if I’ve done anything, I’ve rediscovered myself as my own best friend by accepting who I am and being kinder to myself, sometimes. On good days I’ve tried to live more in the moment, more compassionately and spend less time grasping and fixating on things outside of my control, but on bad days, not so much.”
“Yeah. That’s the piece that fades in and out for me too.”
“Well, at least we are more aware of the ways we don’t help ourselves, Zo.”
“That’s true. Speaking of help, could you hand me the Chex Mix.”
“Ok, Zoe, but only if you’ll release me from the burden of this conversation and let me go back to The L Word.”
“Never mind. I’m going to sleep.”

Just then a text blinged on Sophia’s phone. She opened the message, but it was blank. Then her eyes widened.
“What the fuck?”
“What?”
“Fugly just sent me a blank text.”
“Huh?”
Two more texts messages came in, and they too were blank. Then Sophia’s phone rang. When she answered it, Fugly hung up. It rang again, and again Fugly hung up.
“What the fuck. Why is she calling and texting me at this hour of the night?”
“Maybe you should text Marty and find out what’s going on.”
Before Sophia could text Marty, six more blank messages came in.
“Never mind,” said Sophia, ” They must be having another blow-out. He’s probably sleeping in his car again. Why that Yeti troll wants to draw me in is a mystery, but then again, she has no boundaries. I told you eventually they’d eat each other’s faces off. That’s what happens when you put two acute narcissists together.”
“Are you gonna text Marty or what?”
“Maybe, and I feel like telling him not to bring his flaccid dick here to cry and bemoan the chaos he created. His selfishness amazes me.  Oops. What would Pema say?”
Zoe opened the book again to the turned down page.
“You’re supposed to be soft and nonjudgmental to whatever you see right at this very moment.”
“Crap.  That’s such a tall order,” said Sophia.
“Just watch your show.”
“Okay, Zo,” said Sophia as she set her phone on the bed stand.

A few minutes later, Zoe rolled over and tapped Sophia’s arm. “Hey, did you know our names mean something?”
Sophia pushed “pause,” and looked over at Zoe. “Ahh, no. I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was for a minute, but I keep forgetting to tell you this.”
“Tell me what, Zo?”
“What my therapist told me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“About our names,” said Zoe. “They mean something.”
“How does your therapist know my name?”
“I talk about you all the time. Don’t you talk about me to your therapist?”
“Yes, I do,” said Sophia. “Is there a point here somewhere?”
“Zoe means life and Sophia means wisdom.”

“Is that a Buddhist thing, Zo?”
“No, you moron, it’s Greek.”
“Hum,” said Sophia as she pushed “play.”

+++++++++++++

A few mornings later Sophia awoke and looked out of the french doors in her bedroom. She gazed at the mist hovering above the lake behind her house. The rising sun cast a mauve slash across the sky as Sophia listened to the few birds willing to sing so early. Sophia lifted her head for a moment then lay back down, crying quietly. She thought about the beauty surrounding her and felt shame that she could not sustain a joy in its midst. She thought about her children and granddaughter and her pets, trying to find a warm place to hold onto inside. Even the thought of Zoe’s smiling face could not distract Sophia long enough to grab hold of a peace that would save herself from plunging downward. Then her mind wandered to the anger that awakened her in the night and shook her ragged until she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Doubt drilled her raw as she questioned the perilous choice she was making to walk away from everyone she loved, from everything familiar, from all sources of comfort.

Only the day before, she rejoiced in her life, working hours in her gardens, in the bright sunshine, under an azure sky. But she lingered too long, tried to take too much succor from the earth she spent years shaping into a masterpiece of color and form. At dusk she hurried inside, just after realizing that she would miss the blues of June, as she called many of her favorite blue flowers, like delphiniums, which bloomed only in June. And from that moment on, nothing could distract her from the misery that rose up, wrapping its dangerous arms around her, holding her so close that it took her breath.

Guilt too enfolded her as she thought about people in the world who suffered from truly terrible catastrophes and deprivation, and that she merely suffered because Marty had thrown her away in his gluttony for adulation, wealth, and someone who would mirror his vanity as virtue. But in the end, Sophia knew that suffering was incomparable, and she struggled to remind herself of Victor Frankl’s ideas in Man’s Search for Meaning, that suffering could give her life meaning, if only she could suffer with nobility through self-transcendence. But Sophia did not feel noble; she felt small, selfish, and willfully blind.

As the sky lightened outside, Sophia closed her eyes and let time slip away while she roamed through every mantra and prayer she used when she was too dark inwardly to appreciate the wonder of her life. Some mantras were long, some were short phrases, but none could channel meaning enough to dislodge her ennui. Voltaire and Tolstoy whined and scratched to go outside, but Sophia lay motionless, as if her limbs were too heavy for her mind to move them. After a couple of hours Sophia finally got out of bed long enough to use the bathroom and let the animals out. But no force could propel her downstairs, where work on her manuscript awaited, where she could get food or answer the phone she purposely left in the kitchen the night before. She knew she’d reached a place in the present moment where there were no more words, nothing left to say about the life that was ripped from her, and the life she was walking into.

Zoe phoned Sophia several times that morning. She also sent text and Facebook messages. Then she began to worry. Finally, at noon she drove the five miles to Sophia’s house. When she walked into the kitchen, Zoe noticed dirty dishes and pans strewn on every surface, so uncharacteristic of Sophia. As she walked through the dining room and living room, she was appalled to see clothes, books and papers heaped on chairs and spilling out of boxes into piles on the floor. Zoe called out but no one answered. Upstairs, she strode into Sophia’s bedroom, but Sophia was nowhere in sight. Then she heard whimpering and walked over to the unmade bed to investigate. Zoe pulled back the covers and found Sophia rolled in a ball, lying crossways at the bottom of the bed.
“Fuck sake, Sophie, it is afternoon. Get up.”
“NO.”
“What are doing?”
“Thinking.”
“Get up, Sophie. You’re as scary as a Stephen King movie.”
“I am up.”
“Bullshit. Get out of bed.”
“NO.”
“What’s goin on, honey?” asked Zoe, her voice softening.
“NOTHING,” shouted Sophia.”
Losing her patience, Zoe grabbed Sophia’s legs and began dragging her off the bed. “Let’s go, girlie. You need a shower.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask. Listen to me, Sophie. You are moving to Florida day after tomorrow. You have a lot of shit to do before then. It looks as though you’ve unpacked more than you’ve packed.”
“Can we go to the beach, Zo?”
“Fuck no. You don’t have time. Colin and Poppy and their friends will be here tomorrow to help you pack up the U-Haul. Sophie, you can’t quit right before the finish line.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to move?”
“I don’t, but that’s about me. I want you to move if that’s what you want. I know you fear that if you stay anywhere near Marty, you’ll lose your mind, assuming you haven’t already. Look, if you want, I’ll stay with you right until you drive out of here. Now, get in the fucking shower.”

“Okay,” said Sophia as she stripped off her nightgown and turned on the water. “You know, there’s this Pema quote I haven’t thought about in a long time.”
“What is it?”
“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation, can that which is indestructible be found in us.”
“Do you see your move as a form of annihilation?”
“Yes, annihilation of everything familiar, the closeness with my family, my relationship with you, my home, my gardens. All for what?”
“Your sanity and an affirmation that you can can survive.”
“Is it worth it?”
“Ask yourself that, Sophie.”
“I dunno. What about you, Zo? Do you have the feeling that your choice to leave George was a form of annihilation? I mean, it’s odd that you and I are on the opposite ends of the spectrum, and you often seem just as depressed as I am even though you had a choice about ending your marriage, and I didn’t. Why do we both feel so lost at times?”
Zoe just starred at her angrily. “Sophie, shut up and take a shower. I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”
Sophia glared at Zoe and whispered, “Why are you here anyway? I was content in my bed.”
“Bullshit. You were morose.”
“How the fuck do you know–and why are you such a bitch?”
“Look who’s talking?”
“You picked the fight, Zoe, not I?”
“Yeah, right. Why is it that you need to analyze everything to death?”

“Fuck you,” said Sophia then she guffawed sarcastically as she slammed into the shower and tugged the curtain closed. When she finished showering, Sophia dried off, put on a bikini and breezed from the bathroom without a word. Zoe stared at her, shocked. In the thirty years Zoe had been Sophia’s best friend, she had never seen Sophia fail to rub lotions or oils over her body after a shower. Nor did Sophia blow dry her hair or moisturize her face. And then Sophia did something she’d never done to Zoe before.

Sophia refused to speak or make eye contact with Zoe. She pushed past her old friend, opened the kitchen door, and walked into the courtyard then stretched out, face down on a chaise lounge. The hot sun transfixed her as she lay very still. She didn’t cry or speak or acknowledge Zoe in any fashion. And if there was one thing that could send Zoe spiraling downward into despair, it was to be shunned. Zoe sat for a few minutes, trying to get Sophia’s attention by prodding her and saying things to make her laugh. But finally, as tears streamed down her face, Zoe climbed into her car and drove away.

Zoe and Sophia did not speak the rest of the day. Zoe tried calling Sophia the next morning, but Sophia didn’t answer. By mid-afternoon Sophia’s family and friends formed a chain, lifting furniture and boxes into the U-Haul truck. Sophia busily cleaned each space they cleared. Her mind was numb apart from the expression “I’m moving on,” which drummed in her brain. “Marty has moved on,” she told herself. Then she heard other voices in her mind ask, “But if he has, why does he keep telling me he loves me? Why does he circle back to me when he needs comfort?” “Why does he cry each time he mentions the regret he feels about everything he’s lost?” Sophia’s inner voice, the one way deep down knew the answers to these questions. She knew that Marty did and said these things only so long as he felt insecure. The moment he gained ground again, like a little harpy, he scampered away kicking up dirt in his wake. “MOVE ON,” she began to shout inwardly as dust billowed around her. “MOVE ON,” as each box found a space in the truck. You cannot care what Marty thinks or wants or feels. You are moving on.

That evening Sophia was surrounding by her beloved children and granddaughter. She knew this was the last time laughter and music would ring for her from the home she loved so dearly. Zoe was at her home, also surrounded by her children and grandsons, who had come up from Boston to relax in the country for the long holiday weekend. Lobsters and corn on the cob steamed in both kitchens as the two families prepared their traditional New England feasts. Throughout the evening Zoe and Sophia thought about each other, but both dismissed the temptation to be in touch. Finally, at midnight Sophia texted Zoe to say she was sorry for shunning her. But Zoe was asleep, so she did not hear the message come in.

As the gray fingers of dawn crept across the sky, Sophia stood in the shower, hoping the water would drown out the sound of her sobs. Zoe awoke suddenly, thinking she heard someone crying. Panicked, she jumped from her bed and wandered through her house looking for the source of the noise. But everyone was sound asleep.

Two hours later, Sophia stood hugging and kissing her loved ones goodbye, and then climbed into the truck. Just as she started it up, Zoe flew into the circular driveway, and skidded to a halt  inches behind Sophia’s truck.
“Noooo, Sophie. Don’t goooo,” wailed Zoe as she bounded from her car and ran to Sophia’s window. “We can’t possibly know the sublime lightness without each other.”
Sophia cast lost eyes downward at Zoe. “I’m glad you came, and I’m sorry I hurt you. I love you.”

Rain clouds passed overhead, spraying mist across Zoe’s face. The clouds then parted, revealing a wedge of blue sky. Zoe bent her body in sobs. Then she stood and held up her arms. “Sophie,” she beseeched, “It’s not too late to change your mind. Nothing says you have to move away. Stay. Please stay with me. We’ll move to Boston together. You can’t leave.”

Sophia stared straight ahead and put the truck in gear. Slowly it rolled down the long driveway. Zoe watched in despair and disbelief. Suddenly, the brake lights shone red then went black then red again then….

The End
.
Since life’s adventures run in cycles, it is anticipated that a new cycle of adventures will emerge for Zoe and Sophia. Until then “reruns” of their adventures will be posted here for anyone who wants to know the story from the beginning .

Thank you to everyone who sent advice, and special thanks to Dan Cartier for his masterful operation of this blog, to James Harley, artist, for his endearing graphics and editorial work, and to Samai Cartier for being the impetus and my inspiration every day of her life.
Peace,

Julie K. Knight

Blustery air spat rain sideways as the ferry pushed through the harbor. The shoreline rose from the water, piercing the night, indelibly framed by the lights of Manhattan.  Zoe stood on the deck, her face to the sky, arms wrapped around her waist, leaning against the heavy glass door that stood between the cabin and the deck. Ferry lights against the darkness gave her a sepia flush, like the faces of women Anders Zorn painted a hundred years ago. Chill wind whipped her hair from her forehead as she slowly turned her head, revealing calm eyes and a slender smile. Surrounded by strangers pressing against her, Sophia stood inside the warm cabin, looking out through the glass door, nodding as she returned Zoe’s smile.

Zoe and Sophia stepped from the docking ramp and scampered into the terminal, swept along by other night trippers anxious to embark upon their evening excitements. Pushing open their umbrellas, Zoe and Sophia ran from the ferry terminal to the nearby subway station to catch the Number 1 train going uptown. Once seated in the jostling car, Zoe and Sophia sat, heads bent, as they studied a map, searching for the cross street on Seventh Avenue that would put them closest to the jazz club, their destination.

“Now, how do you know this guy, Sophie?”
“Samuel B and I were lovers years ago when he was a student at Berklee College of Music and I was at Emerson.”
“It’s pretty cool that he’s a famous jazz guitarist now.”
“Actually, he’s been famous for a long time, and he’s one of the kindest men I’ve ever known.”
“Too bad you didn’t marry him.”
“Fuck sake, Zoe, I was nineteen at the time. Over the years Samuel B and I kept in touch and saw each other occasionally when I lived in New Your, but it’s been well over a decade since I’ve seen him. I’ve been stuck in New Hampshire far too long.”
“Ya think,” said Zoe. “But, Sophie, I thought you loved New Hampshire.”

“I did, until Marty cheated on me with Fugly.” Sophia was referring to his husband’s girlfriend who was married to a famous musician, but whose father was someone really famous, Famous Father. Two years before, Fugly approached Marty to become involved in a project being funded by Famous Father. After several months, Fugly and Marty began their affair, and when Famous Father discovered it seven months before, he pulled his money and collapsed the project. Fugly moved out of the marital home, leaving behind three young children she saw on a visitation schedule. Marty moved in with Fugly, forming a new, part-time faux family, and the two enjoyed the support of the vast fortunes of Fugly’s husband and his father.

“I understand why you need to leave New Hampshire, Sophie.”
“I know you do. All the associations are devastating. Plus Marty’s a prick to me, as if I were the one who had the affair instead of him. I just want out.
“Amen, sister,” laughed Zoe. “It’s time for both of us to get the hell out of New Hampshire.

“My biggest regret,” said Sophia, “what breaks my heart in two, will be living so distant from Poppy, Fonzi and Lily, and you, of course.” Sophia was referring to her amazing daughter, Poppy who lived with her wonderful husband Fonzi and her beloved daughter Lily, just a few miles from both Sophia and Zoe. “But being in close proximity to Marty is emotionally crippling me.”
“Okay, change the subject, Sophie. You know it makes me crazy to talk about your move.”
“I’m sorry; you’re right. Let’s just enjoy this trip. Who knows when we’ll take another one together.”

Above ground, the women dashed through the downpour until they found the address of the jazz club. But what they found was nothing, no marquee, no sign, no lights.
“Fuck sake, where’s the club?” asked Zoe.
“I don’t know. I Googled where Samuel B would be playing on today’s date and this was the address.”
“What year, Sophie?”
“Ahh, I assumed it was this year.”
“Well, unless we’re in the Twilight Zone, I think the information was old.”
“Shit. Well, we can’t stand in the rain all night. Let’s walk to the West Village. There’s gotta be music there.”

A half hour later, the friends were sodden and cold. The frustration of their search had sapped a measure of excitement from the evening. They huddled in a doorway out of the rain as Zoe searched her Blackberry for jazz clubs in the West Village. Once they began hunting again, they discovered that other clubs had also gone out of business. Finally, they walked into a place where a group of aging musicians played big band tunes, not the thrill they hoped for, but at least the place was dry.
“I’ll have a scotch,” said Zoe to the bartender as she threw Sophia a flat look of disenchantment.
“Make it two,” said Sophia, ignoring Zoe’s vibe.
The bartender asked if they wanted to run a tab.
“NO,” said the women loudly in unison. They had no intention of spending their entire evening listening to big band tunes.

When the band broke for a few minutes, Sophia flagged down a saxophone player and asked him about other nearby jazz clubs.  Zoe sat with pen and paper, poised to write down names and locations, but Sophia began reminiscing with the sax player as they discovered friends in common, including her old lover, Samuel B.  Zoe smiled politely and nodded absently, wishing that Sophia would get some useful information. Soon after the musician finally gave Zoe a few names to write down, a tall, handsome fifty-something man walked up to them.  He was introduced as a well-known trumpet player. And just like that, Zoe’s apathy vanished. When the trumpet player spoke, it was obvious he was a Brit, and his charm disarmed both Zoe and Sophia. After the two men wandered off, the women decided to search for a better club.

As Zoe and Sophia walked to the front door, they discovered that the Brit trumpet player, Jon, lingered there, almost as if he were waiting for them. He stepped up, blocking their exit and asked if he could take them to another club. Zoe and Sophia followed him as they hurried through the driving rain until they reached a tiny dive called the 55 Bar on Christopher Street, a place that had been around since 1919, surviving the prohibition era. People were tightly crammed in, nearly spilling out onto the sidewalk. Mike Stern played guitar with a bass player and drummer, and their sound was so intense that Zoe and Sophia didn’t care that they had to stand, spines flattened to the back wall. Jon flirted with both women, but they were mostly impervious to his attentions so enthralled were they by the music. The crowd thinned a bit after midnight, so the three of them were able to find stools at the bar. Jon sat in the middle and bought a round of drinks. Sophia leaned over the man to catch Zoe’s attention.

“We both have to work in the morning,” said Sophia. “Don’t you think we should get going?”
“Let’s just hear one more song,” pleaded Zoe.
“Stay. Stay,” urged their escort. “The trains and the ferry run all night.”
During a break after the next tune, Sophia turned to Jon and asked, “Are you married?”
“No,” he said.
“Where do you live?” asked Zoe.
“Right around the corner,” he answered.
When the next song ended, Sophia again caught Zoe’s attention. “Zoe, we will be exhausted in the morning. We should go soon.”
“Stay…stay,” urged the Brit.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Zoe asked him.
“Yes, but she lives north of the city.”
Two songs later Sophia said, “We need to go.”
“Just one more song, Sophie.”
“Stay…stay, the trains and ferry run all night long,” chimed the man yet again.

Zoe and Sophia were beginning to suspect that Jon the Brit had formed a vision of how the evening might end, which included Zoe and Sophia as a package deal. Since this wasn’t the first time they had encountered this objective in men, they pretended not to notice. Finally, after a round of friendly kisses and hugs, Zoe and Sophia bid goodnight to a pair of disappointed eyes on the face of the handsome Brit.

After a scant four hours of sleep, Zoe and Sophia were hard at work at two tables they set up for themselves in the living room of Emily’s Staten Island apartment. Emily was Zoe’s youngest daughter who attended college in Staten Island and had a boyfriend named Zee.  Emily happily offered to have Zoe and Sophia stay at her place during their working vacation.   Although the apartment had two bedrooms, one of which Zoe and Sophia shared, Emily had fallen asleep on the couch a few feet from the work space, and no amount of clamor seemed to rouse her. What neither Zoe nor Sophia knew was that Zee was also asleep on the couch. They didn’t know Zee was there because he was so skinny that his body disappeared into the crack of the couch, as if he’d been swallowed by it.

Sometime late morning Emily’s curly-haired head popped out from under a blanket, and she lurched from the couch toward the bathroom in a panic that she had to hurry to class. Only then was Zee’s dark, sweet face evident as he opened one eye and saw the two women’s startled faces staring at him from across the room. Zee was a rapper who sometimes played night clubs, so morning was not his time. He gave the women one huge, white-toothed smile then flipped over, threw the blanket over his head, and disappeared once again into the crack in the couch. In a few minutes, Emily emerged from the shower, her petite, yet voluptuous body, wrapped in a towel. She kissed her mother and “aunt” good morning then fled to her bedroom to dress.

“They must have gotten in later than we did,” said Zoe.
“I didn’t know that was possible without it being morning,” said Sophia.
“Ah, youth. How’s your writing coming?”
“Okay. How’s your work going?”
“Really well.”
“Are you gonna have time to do any sightseeing during the day, Zo?”
“Nope. I gotta work days, but you should go.”
“Nah. I’ll wait until later in the week when Poppy, Fonzi and Lily get here.”
“Yeah. We’ll all go.”

That evening, Zoe and Sophia wandered through the West Village breathing in the excitement. As they walked down Christopher Street, past a shop selling leather and sex implements for many tastes and persuasions, a man suddenly stepped into their path. He was a young, gay, African American, with bulging eyes a broken front tooth and quite drunk.

He grabbed Sophia’s arm, pressed his face into hers, and spewing spit through boozy breath said, “You have recently been betrayed by someone very close to you and your heart is broken.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “That’s true.”
Then he lurched toward Zoe, cupped her head in his hands and said, “You’ve spent your whole adult life  caring  for others, and now it’s your time.”
Zoe laughed in amazement. These were the very words her therapist spoke in her last session.

After reeling off several more astonishing, on-point facts about Zoe and Sophia, the weird, young man finally let them in on his secret. He claimed to be an angel sent to earth to communicate specifically with certain people, and Zoe and Sophia were on his list. Each time the women tried to walk on, their “angel” encircled them with his energy, touched their hair, and spilled another revelation from his lips. Several times Zoe and Sophia glanced at each other helplessly, trying to convince the man they had to leave him behind. But they were careful to exert only gentleness in their words and gestures. After all, no one wants to offend an angel.

“That was different,” said Zoe.

“That’s  New York City, baby,” said Sophia.

On 3rd Street off McDougal they found the Village Underground. The house band was jumping and so were the clientele. Zoe and Sophia swooned at the Blues, Reggae, Funk and R & B music. They were seated at a table right in front of the band, next to an elderly Spaniard, an artist, who held a sketch pad in his lap. He studied Zoe’s face for a few minutes then reached for his pastels and drew Zoe’s portrait. When the Spaniard was finished sketching, he jumped up, held out his hand to Sophia and twisted his old limbs into some serious dirty dancing, until his wife softly intervened and led him back to his seat before he keeled over. Several other men asked Zoe to dance while Sophia watched. Finally, Sophia decided to dance by herself, and as she did so, she made eye-contact with the man who sat at the table behind hers. Working up a nerve she generally lacked, she gestured for the man to join her. To her amazement, he agreed.

Sophia thought her interpretation of the music was artful and sexy. Unfortunately, her dancing included wild spinning circles, and she flapped her arms in such a way that she knocked into other dancers frequently. Her spastic footwork didn’t have quite enough room on the small dance floor, and at one point she tripped and fell face-first onto the platform stage. The two pretty female vocalists looked down at Sophia, smiled, and continued their dance steps, but delicately, so as not to step on Sophia’s head. As Sophia rolled over mortified, she looked up at the gorgeous lead guitar player, who bent down, hand outstretched and helped her to her feet.

Pretending as if nothing had happened, Sophia smiled brightly at her bewildered dance partner, enticing him not to flee the floor. Since he was a gentleman, he kept on dancing. After three more songs, Sophia tried talking to him, but the music was so loud that she heard only the word soup he shouted in her ear. Sophia nodded toward tables at the back of the club, and he smiled his assent. Once seated outside the ear-shattering zone, Sophia learned that he was an Argentinean economist who worked for the government in Washington, D.C. He hailed from Russian Jews who fled Russia in the 1920s. The mere mention of Russia launched Sophia into one of her favorite topics, Tolstoy’s novels, none of which her scholarly companion had read. Half way through explaining the plot of War and Peace, Sophia saw her companion’s eyes glazing over, so she asked him whether he was married. He was. And because of this fact, the good man was spared the plot of Anna Karenina.

Later in the week   Zoe and Sophia devoted an entire evening to checking out girl bars in Manhattan. Sophia’s recent discovery of the show The L Word prompted this adventure. In order to sleep on nights she was particularly tortured by her current emotional devastation, Sophia watched DVDs of The L Word’s six seasons. She talked about the show’s characters as if they were actual people in her life. Anyone who knew Sophia well, knew that this was not the first time she had pushed through grief by adopting a stable of imaginary friends. Anyone who loved Sophia, accepted this oddity of hers. It kept Sophia from living permanently on Planet Nuts.

Although Zoe and Sophia met scores of friendly, fun-loving lesbians, they realized that Hollywood embellished the glitz and glamour of such places. Big surprise there. On the ferry ride home that night, Zoe turned to a sleepy Sophia and muttered something.
“What did you say?” asked Sophia.
“I didn’t feel right in the lesbian bars. I felt like an unfair imposter.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not a lesbian. So, I felt I was deceiving them because they probably thought I was a lesbian.”
“How do you know what they thought? Anyway, that’s not the point. You like women as people, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, what’s wrong with hanging out exclusively with a bunch of women?”
“Nothing, Sophie, it just felt dishonest because women were flirting with me.”
“Do you feel dishonest going into a straight bar and talking to men who flirt with you, but whom you would never dream of sleeping with in a million years?”
“No.”
“Well, how’s that different? People are people. I like hanging out with only women sometimes. It’s not about sex. It’s about camaraderie.”
“Hum. I don’t know. I still felt like it was deceptive.”

“Try this on for size,” said Sophia. “Are you black?”
“No,” said Zoe, bewildered by the question.
“Do you feel like a fraud if you go to a black neighborhood and eat in a restaurant where you’re the only white person?”
“I’m not tracking, Sophie.”
“You have a simpatico with black folks because your children are bi-racial. So, you actually like being in all-black environs. You don’t feel like a fraud in that situation because you don’t connect it to sex. You simply like finding commonality with people different from you.”
“We might be at an impasse on this one, but I hear your point.”

As the week crawled along, Zoe and Sophia awaited the arrival of Poppy, Fonzi and Lily, but they didn’t anticipate the ensuing turmoil. Poppy, unaccustomed to cities, arrived one evening in the vortex of a complete breakdown. Fonzi explained delicately, while Poppy was out on the porch downing a glass of wine, that Poppy had come unhinged on the George Washington Bridge, screaming for Fonzi to pull off the bridge someway, somehow. But it was a bridge, after all.

The next day, when the whole gang visited the Statue of Liberty, Poppy wasn’t much better, and she clung to Lilly like tree fungus, casting caustic glances at every poor passerby, terrified that someone would sweep Lily away and sell her into white slavery. Lily wasn’t entirely white since Poppy herself was bi-racial, but that was beside the point. Poppy was a good-natured, brilliant woman with a lovely face, a zaftig figure and a booming laugh. Absolutely nothing frightened Poppy in the wilds. But put her around throngs of humanity and tall buildings, and her laugh was replaced by hyperventilation. At one point Lily begged her mother to let her go off with her “cousin” Emily and the Zee man, to get a hotdog on the back side of Lady Liberty. Well, Poppy’s panic was like a vapor blowing out of her eyes and ears as she screeched, “NO WAY,” scaring everyone around, including the pigeons.

Poppy tested Fonzi’s patience, but the man was bred to kindness and compassion and his adoration of Poppy was unflappable, so he figured out ways to reassure his wife without wringing her neck.

Lilly noticed nothing but the wonder of newness. Her beautiful, dark eyes took in every detail as her sharp mind compared facts about New York City that she studied preparing for the trip, with the reality of the city she observed. And her delight at several characters who shouted to themselves as they attacked invisible foes was just as forceful as her enthusiasm for Ellis Island. She only wished the grown-ups had as much energy as she did, and patience– especially when she did things like hang her athletic little body upside down from the grip bars on the subway as if she were on a jungle gym.

As for Poppy, the only thing that tranquillized her was on the final day, when everyone went to the Empire State Building. Fonzi took the young people to the top, and Zoe and Sophia took Poppy shopping. It was as if Manhattan itself sighed deeply. Poppy’s cure wasn’t cheap, but it was effective. By the time the group reunited in Central Park for lunch, Poppy was downright giddy.  In fact, she was so relaxed that she only flinched when Lily rushed up to a man who was dancing in the street.  Lily beamed then gaily danced with the man, a lunatic dressed in a pink tutu and black Converse sneakers. But nothing appealed to Poppy as strongly as the next dawn, when the little family set their course for home. By then, Poppy longed for the lakes, the moose, the deer and the monastic life of a country girl.

Since it was the weekend, Zoe slept in. When she finally awoke, she went in search of Sophia and found her in Emily’s tiny yard, on her hands and knees, planting flowers.
“What time did the kids leave?” Zoe asked. “I vaguely remember them coming in to kiss me goodbye. What are you doing?”
Sophia looked up curiously. “What’s it look like? Nice hair by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your bed head sets a new record.”
“So what? You’re covered in dirt.”
“Duh. I’m gardening.”
“This is our last full day. What do wanna do, Sophie?”
“I wanna see Harlem again.”
“I’ve never been there. Sure.”
“Let’s shower and see if we can catch the ten o’clock ferry,” said Sophia.

Once out of the shower the two friends rubbed moisturizer over their slender torsos and long, lean legs. After drying their blond hair, their eyes met in the bathroom mirror as they applied subtle makeup to their faces.
“Zo, you won’t believe what happened this morning.”
“What?”
“Marty thought he was sending Fugly a text, but he sent it to me by accident.”
“No shit. What did it say?”
“It was hard to make out the context, but since he addressed her by name, I knew it was for her. He told her to “get fucked” twice. I guess paradise is eluding him. I wrote him back.”
“What did you say?”
“I wrote ‘What starts in chaos–ends in chaos. And BTW, you sent this to me by mistake.’”
“Holy shit. Did he write back?”
“Nope. I guess he’s figuring out he’ll never have the standing he wants with his new faux family. Marty likes being king of the castle. But Fugly will never move over, trust me. She and Marty are so narcissistic, that they are bound to eat each other’s faces off.”
“Would you ever go back to him if they broke up?”
“Nope. I know who he is now. I don’t need a coward who lies and cheats. I just hope he doesn’t show up on my doorstep looking for “mommy comfort” when I get home.”
“He is such a dick wad, Sophie. Please remember how shattered you were last month when he came home, wanting to reconcile, and then after a couple of weeks went right back to Fugly.”
“I won’t make that mistake again, Zo.”
“Not to change the subject, but if we go out tonight, we should try to get back at a reasonable time. We have a long drive ahead tomorrow.”

By early afternoon Zoe and Sophia emerged from the subway at 125th Street in Harlem. Zoe began snapping pictures of landmarks like the Apollo Theater as Sophia perused the street vendors’ wares. Zoe kept waiting for the Harlem she read about and saw in movies to jump out at her, but it never did. Instead of dashing black men in fancy suits, escorting minxy blues singers in evening gowns, she saw families out for a stroll on a warm spring afternoon. Instead of sensing danger and excitement, she sensed benign ordinariness, a place where people were friendly and helpful and didn’t seem to notice Zoe and Sophia more than they did anyone else.

Late that afternoon Zoe and Sophia were back in Staten Island, packing their bags so they could make an early departure the next morning. In the evening Zoe and Sophia drove with Emily and Zee back into Manhattan. Emily dropped Zoe and Sophia at The Jazz Standard so they could hear Samuel B, Sophia’s old friend, agreeing to pick them up ten-thirty.  Although Sophia had spent the drive obsessing on seeing her old lover after so many years, she needn’t have worried.

When Zoe and Sophia stepped out of the car, the first people they saw walking down the street toward them were Samuel B and his colleague, Piano Man. Even in the darkness, Sophia recognized Samuel B.  Years slipped away like rain on a leaf, and Sophia walked hurriedly toward her old friend. His kind spirit reached out to her, entwining her in a time when life was fresh, full of awe, and barely weighed down by experience. They embraced each other for several seconds, and then pulled back, smiling into each other’s eyes. Love never dies, Sophia thought to herself.

Inside the club,  Sophia and Samuel be caught up on each others’ families then Sophia’s failed marriage came up.  Try as she might, Sophia could not staunch the tears. She realized it had been a long time since she looked into the eyes of a truly compassionate, selfless male friend who wasn’t consumed by insecurity. She felt so grateful to be reminded that men like Samuel B moved through the world and that perhaps someday, she would meet another one like him, a man she could safely entrust her heart to, without fear that he would crush it and then discard it as worthless.

Zoe and Sophia listened raptly to the amazing music the band created, but at ten-thirty they met Emily outside as promised. Something about her encounter with Samuel B diminished Sophia’s ever-present sorrow, and she suddenly felt so tired, that she curled up in the backseat and fell asleep. Zoe’s internal disposition was just the opposite. She was bucking to keep the night young. So, instead of dropping them in Staten Island, Emily invited Zoe to go to Brooklyn to meet Emily’s girlfriends for a late supper.

Near midnight, Sophia awoke with a start from a happy dream she tried to remember, but couldn’t. At first she wasn’t sure where she was, then within seconds, she remembered she was in the car. Sophia heard Zoe admonishing Emily not to park too far from the curb.
“Where are we,” called Sophia, still supine in the back seat.
“At a Caribbean restaurant in Brooklyn,” said Zoe. “Get up. We’re going in for dinner.”
“So much for an early night,” said Sophia.
“Emily’s hungry, and her friends are eating here.”

Emily and her friends were well known in the crowded, dark restaurant, which featured goat stew, jerk chicken and steamy Reggae music. Her two friends were tall, stunning black women who were sharp as a rose’s thorn and bursting with joi de vivre. With petite, exotic Emily in the middle, the three swept through the room to the table as the heads of men swiveled. Zoe and Sophia, the only white people in the place, took up the rear. The drinks menu made Sophia blush with names like “Lay Me” and “Triple Orgasm.” Zoe and Sophia laughed so hard at the young ones’ stories that they had trouble keeping food in their mouths. Time slipped and slithered to a euphoria, a feeling neither Zoe nor Sophia wanted to let slide away.

By early afternoon the next day, Zoe looked at Sophia in distress.
“What did I forget? I know I forgot something.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Sophia. “Where are we?”
“Still in Connecticut. We should be crossing the Massachusetts border within the hour.”
“I’m gonna need to pee soon, Zo. Are you hungry?”
“I need gas anyway,” said Zoe. “We’ll pull off at the next exit.”

Just then, Zoe’s phone rang.
“It’s my lawyer. Should I answer it?”
“Of course.”
Zoe listened for a little while then ended the call.
“My divorce is final,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Why are you crying?”
“Passages, finality,” said Zoe, blowing her nose. “Plus I have to pay George a shit load of alimony.”
“Zoe, it’s been a long road to get here.  You’re finally free, apart from the indentured servitude of alimony, of course.”

“Was that a Buddhist thing, Sophie?”
“Sounds like.”

As Zoe drove onto an exit ramp just after reaching Massachusetts, Sophia heard a text message blinging. She looked down at her phone and saw the text was from their friend, Jackson, the man who owned the house she wanted to rent in Florida.
“What’s up?” asked Zoe.
“The house in Florida is now empty, and I can move in anytime.”
Sophia began to cry.
“Why the tears?” asked Zoe.
“Relief, fear, pain. I know I’ve wanted to move for months, but now that it’s real, I’m scared and dreadfully sad about leaving my family–and you, of course.”

Zoe pulled into a gas station. She turned to face Sophia, and they stared into each others’ eyes for several seconds, watching the ambivalence of their choices dance then droop then dance again in their thoughts. Finally Zoe said, “WHAT’S IN THESE GRAB BAGS THAT WE CALL OUR MINDS?”
Sophia struggled to respond. Helplessly, she cried, “I DON’T KNOW. WHAT IS IN THESE GRAB BAGS THAT WE CALL OUR MINDS?”
Zoe just shook her head then reached out her arms for Sophia to hold her.

Hours later, as dusk filled the sky, Zoe pulled into Sophia’s driveway.
Sophia gasped. “Why is Marty’s car here?”
“Fuck sake, Sophie. Let’s just drive on to my house. You can stay there until you find out why he’s at your house.”
“No. I’ll go in. We’ll talk tomorrow. Thanks for a wonderful trip. I love you,” said Sophia, pulling her luggage from the back seat. Zoe watched her friend as she robotically dragged her belongings up the walkway. Sophia didn’t turn around before the front door slammed behind her.

That night, Zoe and Sophia moved along their new groundless paths in darkness. From time to time each wondered whether the other was thinking about their undefined futures, about the story yet to be written with words they’d never seen, about the picture yet to be painted with colors they’d never used. They balanced on the pinpoint of time called the present, recognizing the past was irretrievable and the future impossible to predict. The only thing Zoe and Sophia knew for sure was that they were off on another adventure as The Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being.

To be continued…but nearing the end of “Season One” of the Adventures of Zoe & Sophia.  Remember, to read the whole story, begin with the first post.  Easiest access to earlier posts is to click on bolded dates on the calendar to the right of the story.

Please send your ADVICE to two single women, whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos!  Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years, find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty.  They need advice from anyone willing to help them.   For instance, what advice would you and your BFF give if you asked each other “WHERE ARE WE GOING?  AND WHAT WILL WE FIND?”  Any advice you can give to Zoe and Sophia would be helpful, but this is what they said to each other.

The day started softly with the rising sun. Mist hung like chiffon over the water behind Sophia’s house. Swiftly, two great blue herons rose through the mist, fleeing a sudden invasion of mallards and Canada geese. An ancient snapping turtle swam the center lane of the lake as he journeyed toward the dam at the other end, sinking every few yards, foraging for prey. Ospreys hovered overhead then plunged feet first into the shimmering surface when they spotted a good catch old snappy had missed. Once the ospreys ascended, clutching fish in their claws, they broke toward the sky, their slow wing-beats changing to glides as they soared.

Zoe rolled over and watched Sophia wake up. She reached out and stroked Sophia’s soft, light hair. Poignant pictures pricked her, snap shots of moments that filled thirty years of their sustained love as best friends. Sophia’s eyes fluttered open, and a smile sprang out to greet Zoe.
“Don’t give away your power, Sophie.”
“I won’t. Never again will I give away my power.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“First, I need coffee.”

Because the days were closing in on Zoe and Sophia before Sophia’s permanent exodus from New Hampshire to Florida, the friends spent many nights together. They framed each other, stored up each other’s warmth and energy, like birds gathering food in autumn, preparing for the long stretches to come during which they would know each other’s voices and words, but be too distant for touch, smell and sight.

Zoe and Sophia walked down to the water, holding hands like school girls in a playground. They dipped their toes in the lake, and as brave as Zoe was about icy water, even she gave up the idea of swimming. But they giggled as they splashed each other. Side by side they perched on the arms of a weathered Adirondack chair, watching their dogs Sparky and Voltaire chase a tennis ball up and down the shoreline. A chilly breeze finally drove them back inside.

Sophia built a small fire in the fireplace, while Zoe made another pot of coffee.
“What about you, Zoe. Are you going to hold on to your powers too?”
“Which ones? I mean, what do you see as my powers?”
“The same as mine, the same as everyone’s. If you can see my powers, you can see your own.”
“Do I have your power in the strength with which you love?”
“Of course you do.”
“I guess I knew that. How about the way your creativity gives you power,” asked Zoe.
“Ah huh, yours does too.”
“But Sophie, that’s your work. Writing is what you do. I have a wonderful job, but it’s not creative.”
“I suppose it’s a matter of semantics, but you spend much of your time at work thinking about creative solutions for people.  How we spend our time is a huge factor in what defines us—don’t you think?”
“I guess.”

“When Marty and I were together, I used to say work was what I did, but my marriage and home were who I was.”
“I remember,” said Zoe, lifting her eyebrows. “I never felt that way except toward motherhood, which was all about who I was. Otherwise, I was often happiest at work. But my marriage to George was pretty volatile from the beginning and always lacked mutuality.”
“Do you think my closeness with Marty was one of the ways I gave up my power, Zoe?”
“Maybe. You let Marty define certain aspects of you. You lived for and around him so totally. Actually, he was the same way with you. I’m not sure I’ve ever known a more symbiotic couple. It worked for you when it worked, making his betrayal all that more crushing. But that’s not the power I was worried about you giving away, Soph.”

“What did you mean?”
“I meant the power you’ve given to Marty to hurt you since the split.”
“Yes, I need to take back the power of finding my own value. Marty can never again be at its core. Long before the split though, I was trying to resurrect him. What a sad waste of time. The Marty I knew died when he began his affair with Fugly.”

“I don’t wanna talk about Marty right now or about that ugly, rich, predatory girlfriend of his. Even thinking about them robs you of your power. Right now, I wanna talk about us. What else gives us power, Sophie?”
“Our curiosity and intelligence.”
“That’s true. Neither of us questions those qualities in ourselves. But if we’re all that intelligent, why do we give away our power?
“Do you know what Pema says?” Sophia was referring to Pema Chodron, their favorite American Buddhist writer.
“What does Pema say?”
“She says fear drives most people and our instinct is to run away from our fears. But when we run from them, we give the power to our fears. She thinks we should run toward those things we fear then fear loses its power.”

“That sounds like Psychology 101,” said Zoe as she walked into the kitchen and grabbed a half-eaten bag of Chex Mix.
Sophia followed her to the kitchen. “That’s true, Zoe, but it’s one thing if you’re talking about fear of heights or dogs or the dark. It’s another thing to talk about the deep-seated emotional fears that can become the driving motivation for how we fashion our lives.”

“Okay, Sophie. Give me an example. What do I run away from?”
“You run from fear of being alone and have since you were a child. You can probably look back on your life and see how fleeing that fear was the cornerstone of some of the most important decisions you made.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe what attracted you to George was his unhealthy fixation on you. He wouldn’t let you out of his sight. You found someone whose insecurity matched your fear of being alone.”
“Interesting. I wonder if I can extricate myself from that fear.”
“Maybe. If you could view aloneness as a state of nature that won’t harm you, then you wouldn’t be so afraid of it. I wish you enjoyed you as much as I enjoy you.”
Zoe laughed. “I kinda see what you mean. No one can live inside of me except me. It’s just I and I in the end.”

“Okay, Rasta sistah, what do I run away from?”
“You run from the fear of loss.”
“Ya think?” laughed Sophia.
“If you could transform your ideas about loss it might help you.”
“Meaning?”
“Every second of every day, everything changes. If you could substitute the idea of loss with the concept of change, maybe your fear of loss would lose its power. Change is like time; it never stops. Time is the rhythm of life, change is the melodic sound—they are inextricable.”

“Deep. But you’re insinuating that all change is good, Zo.”
“Not really. It is what it is. Why fear what we can’t control?”
“Why fear anything?” asked Sophia quietly.
“There you go,” said Zoe as she took a bow. “It’s easy to say, and hard to do, of course. But let’s get back to the power thing. What do we feel when we feel powerless?”

Sophia tossed a handful of Chex Mix into her mouth and crunched for a few seconds before answering. “I’d say when we feel powerless, we feel our lives lack value, and that really, really scares us.”
“Okay, I’m done for now, Sophie. Hand over the Chex Mix. This discussion gave me a headache. What are we gonna do with this gorgeous day?”

“I dunno” said Sophia, ”work in our flower gardens?”
“No, no, no,” Zoe said, shaking her head emphatically. “I’m not watching you talk to twenty flower beds filled with “your babies” and cry hysterically because you’re not gonna be here when they blossom. Let’s go to New York.”
“That’s kinda far for a quick jaunt. Anyway, we’re going there next week.”
“Okay, let’s do Boston then.”
“Can we go to the Museum of Fine Arts?”
“Why not? We’ll do lunch. Hey, maybe we’ll meet some interesting men.”
“Or maybe we’ll just see some interesting art work.”
“Either way works for me, Sophie. Let’s shower.”

After they showered, the women stood in their panties and bras as steam billowed around them. They rubbed lotion over their slender torsos and long lean legs, but the mirror was too clouded for them to see their reflections. Sophia tugged on the bathroom window, which stuck like so many others in her 1770 home. When she finally pulled it free, she propped it open with an old hairbrush. Soon the steam floated outside into the warm spring air. Zoe and Sophia bent upside down, drying their blond hair before they applied moisturizer and subtle makeup to their faces. Because the day was warm enough, they dressed in tank tops and shorts, and slipped sandals onto their feet. But even in the sunshine, Boston’s wind off the harbor would have a chilling dampness, so they packed sweaters.

Meanwhile, Zoe’s stroke-impaired yellow lab Sparky was in a power pout, his face turned to the wall. He was upset because Voltaire, Sophia’s border collie, insisted on dividing his time fairly between Sparky and Tolstoy. Tolstoy was Sophia’s huge Maine Coon cat. Sparky was less than fond of Tolstoy, but Voltaire adored the cat. Voltaire lay by the fire on his side with one paw slung around Tolstoy, who was plastered to Voltaire’s chest, licking his face. Not only did Sparky not get how anyone could love Tolstoy, but his feelings were hurt because he felt left out. Sparky glanced over at the “love birds,” and Tolstoy shot Sparky a slit-eyed look, for no other reason than just to rub it in. Tolstoy’s a bastard, thought Sparky. Sparky’s a dweeb, thought Tolstoy. Voltaire rolled his eyes, shook his head, and wished everyone would just get along.

“What are we gonna do with the dogs, Zo?”
“I’ll call George and tell him I’m dropping them off at the house. He’ll let them out and feed them later.” Although Zoe and George’s divorce was just a few weeks away, they still lived on the same property. Zoe lived in the 1790 house, and George lived in the guest cottage.
“That’s probably best. It’s too warm to leave them in the car for long, and that way we won’t have to hurry home. We can just go where the wind blows us.”
“Whatever,” said Zoe, grimacing at Sophia’s metaphor.
“What’s wrong,” asked Sophia.
“Go where the wind blows us? Fuck sake, Sophie.”
“Fuck you, Zoe. Okay, we’ll ride the tail of a falling star and land where it drops us.”
“Skip it. Do you know what the special exhibit at the MFA is right now?”
“No, but we can Google it. Anyway, I’m in the mood for the ancient Egyptians. Maybe we can even walk over to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and look at the garden under the atrium. I bet the flowers are lovely.”
“Okay, but let’s get going and please bring something to eat for the ride.”

Sophia walked hurriedly to the kitchen cupboard and grabbed a new bag of Chex Mix, a jar of Nutella and two spoons and stuffed them in a cloth bag. Then she drew from the fridge four bottles of vitamin water and dashed out the door.

On the drive to Boston, the women first sang along with vintage Jill Scott. When their favorite song, Living My Life like its Golden, began to play, they looked at each other and smiled then threw back their heads and bellowed the words from the base of their stomachs. But by the time the song ended, Sophia’s voice wobbled.
“What’s wrong, Sophie?”
“This was the theme song for my life when Marty and I were together. I was so smug in my marriage. I adored him, you know.”
“Yeah, but you had to overlook a lot.”
“Meaning?”
“You had to overlook his hardcore narcissism.”
“In what ways?”
“Marty’s the kind of person who thinks primarily of his own needs, rarely apologizes, lacks true empathy, shows little compassion, is vain glorious, and feels others are always being thoughtless and lacking in care towards him.”
“Well, that’s quite a laundry list.”
“I’m not done, Sophie. Marty has a way of forcing others to explain their actions, rarely visa versa. And do you know how often in an hour you used to say “I’m sorry” to him? It made me wanna puke sometimes. You lived in constant fear of disappointing him because he was impossible to please. Nothing was ever his fault and everyone else was always “wrong,” never him.”
“What prompted this rant, Zoe?”
“It’s not a rant; it’s clarity I wish you would see. You were a perfect foil to him, the eternal optimist who trusted him irrationally to your detriment. Sophie, you’re the only adult I know who still believes in Tinkerbell.”

“I accepted him for who he was,” said Sophia.  “Growing up, he was modeled that people were either for you or against you. He’s all about black or white, no gray. Remember how judgmental he was about people who had affairs? Now, he has to make what he did be “right,” and he can’t stand the mirror I hold up to him. Since I no longer worship him because he cheated on me and left the marriage, I fell from grace.”
“Go figure, Sophie. He’s the troll fucker, but you’re the bad guy.”
“That’s an interesting nickname.”
“Well, Fugly looks and walks like a troll, she’s not that bright, and she has the depth of a flyswatter. All she really has going for her is a lot of money that other people earned.”
“Well, I’m moving past that now, Zoe. I think a better name for him is the ‘deconstructed half-man.’”
“Meaning?”
“Marty’s whole motif was vested in integrity and accountability and doing meaningful things with one’s life. He can’t argue that what he did to me reflected either integrity or accountability. And recently, I asked him what he and Fugly did all day. He said they sat around and watched TV, and when he was working, she invented stuff to do. He said she’s looking for meaning.”

“Well, you’ve written two books since this whole shit started. That’s not half bad, Sophie. Cream always rises to the top.”
“That’s what my mother used to say when I didn’t feel good about myself.”
“You have so much value, Sophie, but Marty’s too stupid to know it.”
“Not necessarily, Zo. If financial security was his objective, he certainly achieved it.”
“Good point.”
“Zo, the mountain I struggle to climb is to release all expectations of Marty. Mercifully, the summit just might be in sight. And once I bury him atop of it, I will dance on his proverbial grave. There are no bridges back to Marty. Now, could you please turn up the music; I don’t wanna talk about him anymore.”

As they drove, the women listened to the South African musician, Hugh Masekela. His songs were political, uplifting, and lively. They sang along, snapped their fingers and danced as vigorously as they could, pinned in by their seatbelts. But pretty soon, Zoe could tell Sophia was growing restless.
“What do wanna talk about now, Sophie?”
“I wanna talk about The L Word.”
“What is your obsession with that show?”
“I love all the universal themes reflected from a purely female perspective.”
“Lesbian female perspective you mean.”
“Not entirely. One of the main characters, Kit, is straight and some of them are bi-sexual and transsexual. Some characters are even gay and straight men.”
“Who are your favorite characters?”
“The writer Alice and the museum art director Bette,” said Sophia.
“Why those two?”
“I identify with them. Can you believe Bette was reading Pema on the show? I nearly fell over.”
“Weren’t you watching in bed?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I like Alice and Bette too,” said Zoe, “but my favorite character is the sex magnet, Shane.”
“Does she remind you of yourself?”
“No, not really, but I do relate to her pain, especially when I was in my early twenties.”
“I’m beginning to panic, Zo. I only bought DVDs of the first four seasons, and I’m nearly done watching those. Maybe we can stop at Barnes & Noble so I can buy the last two seasons.”
“I wanna go to a lesbian bar tonight to dance,” said Zoe suddenly. “I haven’t been to one since we lived in Boston, before you met Marty. We used to have so much fun dancing, remember?”
“I do. But how did we go from watching The L Word to dancing at a lesbian bar?”
“How did we go from Shane the sex magnet to Barnes & Nobel?”

“I’m sorry,” said Sophia.  ”Did you want me to explore further why you like the Shane character so much?
Zoe nodded. “Do you think she’s a sex addict?”
“I’m not sure what that is, Zo.”
“I guess it’s a person who uses sex like alcohol or drugs, to mask insecurity and pain.”
“Well, I think the Shane character uses sex because it simulates love without her having to feel love, which she’s afraid to do because she was abandoned by her parents as a child.”
“Do you think I’m a sex addict, Sophie?”
“Do you think you are?  I think you have a highly tuned libido, but you never screwed around on George all those years until the end.  You might be drawn to wanting male attention, but perhaps that has more to do with wanting to be loved than with wanting to have sex.”
“Hum. Interesting.  Let’s talk about something else.”

A few minutes later the women walked into the Museum of Fine Arts. First, they visited the darkened, hushed room where the Egyptian mummies lay encased in glass. Next, they found the brighter room where the Impressionist paintings hung. By mid-afternoon, Zoe and Sophia were hungry. Because the day was warm and sunny, they decided to go to the cafeteria and take a tray of food outside to eat in the museum’s enclosed courtyard. In the courtyard young mothers sat talking, watching their children play on the grass amidst fearless birds that pecked at crumbs on tables and in the dirt. But no interesting-looking, single men were afoot.

After lunch, Zoe and Sophia walked the couple of blocks to the Isabella Stuart Gardiner Museum, a place they had visited many times, especially when their children were young. They knew the eclectic, extraordinary exhibits well, so instead of meandering from room to room, they perched on the low wall surrounding the amazing indoor garden. The museum itself was patterned after a Venetian palazzo, and the garden, its centerpiece, was crowned by an atrium five stories above.

“Would you have envisioned us living the lives we are now when we were in our twenties?” asked Zoe.
“No. But I’ve never really thought about it either.”
“Didn’t people in their fifties seem ancient to us?”
“Practically dead. But, you know what–I don’t feel old. Do you, Zo?”
“Nope. I still feel young inside.”
“Well, fortunately, you still look young too. Not a day over forty.”
“Forty’s not young either when you’re twenty. But you too, Sophie, are well preserved.”
“Maybe that’s because we don’t feel old. Well, most of the time I don’t. On days when I’m utterly miserable about Marty, I feel pretty old. I don’t like what all the crying does to the lines around my eyes.”
“Those lines have a way of disappearing when you stop crying.”
“That alone is a good reason to stop. Thank God for Elizabeth Arden, Lancome, Clinique….”
“Fuck sake, Sophie, enough with the product lines. You’re broke, so maybe you shouldn’t spend so much on that stuff.”
“Like hell I shouldn’t, Zo. It’s worth every penny. As much as I cry, imagine what I’d look like without that shit to count on.”
“Why are we talking about facial moisturizers?”
“Would you rather talk about the orchids and the lilies? Hey, look over there. Those guys are checking us out. Work your magic, Zo. Send out that vibe. Maybe they’ll come over to meet us.”
“You’re a big talker,” said Zoe as she turned around to see the men Sophia spied.
“They look like brothers,” said Sophia.
“Yeah, they do. Not bad looking, well dressed—I like guys who wear oxford shirts under sports jackets over jeans,” said Zoe as she caught the men’s eyes and smiled gently.

Before long the men walked over and sat down on the garden wall next to Zoe and Sophia. One of the men struck up a conversation by asking Sophia the name of a nearby flower. Sophia could identify the names of everything growing in front of them. Had she only answered the man’s question about the single flower, she might have avoided toppling into the rabbit hole of her nerves. But no, she babbled on randomly about flower after flower until Zoe jabbed her in the ribs to shut it before she blew it. Sophia halted in mid-sentence, expelling air from her lips instead of words, and the two men looked askance for a second wondering where the rest of Sophia’s thought had wandered to. Zoe took up the conversational mission, wrapping the men around her words with her charm. Soon, they asked Zoe and Sophia if they knew of a place nearby where they could walk to have a glass of wine.

As the foursome strolled to a nearby wine café, Zoe and Sophia learned that they were fifty-something brothers, two years apart in age, lived in California, and were in Boston to attend a family wedding. Both men were divorced, had grown children and did something behind the scenes in the film industry. Since this was Zoe’s field too, of course she found immediate commonality. Unfortunately, Sophia did not. The older brother, Dave made no secret that he was gunning for Zoe, and with an almost imperceptible nod to Sophia, Zoe made known the feeling was mutual. The younger brother, Nick, was solicitous and sweet to Sophia, tried everything to draw her out on the walk, but her brain was so busy saying,“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” that she missed the more subtle nuances of his gallantry. But each time she glanced into his eyes, she was aware of how attractive she found him.

They sat at a small table in the crowded café, and Zoe continued her animated conversation while the waiter brought them a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a platter heaped with cheese and crackers. Sophia, still unable to contribute much to the conversation, nodded like a fool and laughed at the wrong times. Zoe threw her a bone, encouraging Sophia to talk about how she was turning one of her recent manuscripts into a screenplay, but Sophia dropped the bone with a monosyllabic response and stuffed her mouth full of crackers instead.

Unfortunately, the crackers in Sophia’s mouth were like dust bunnies clogging a vacuum cleaner, and when she took a swig of wine in an attempt to soften the mass, she choked, and a ball of half-masticated crumbs spewed from her mouth and shot across the table, hitting Zoe in the left side of her head as she gazed flirtatiously into the lovely eyes of  Dave.  The men turned slowly and stared at Sophia.
“Fuck sake, Sophie, eat much,” said Zoe, raking her fingers through the mushy mess clinging to her hair.
“Sorry,” said Sophia as she wiped from her chin the soggy crumbs that hadn’t made the journey across the table.

The men pretended nothing had happened and resumed their lively repartee despite that Zoe’s attention was distilled into a steady glare, which shrieked at Sophia to cut the shit. Feeling she needed to redeem herself, Sophia risked a conversational maneuver.
“My favorite TV show is The L Word. Do you like it,” she asked.
“I thought that show finished up,” said Nick.”
“It did, but I just bought the first four seasons on DVD. They were on the sale table at the bookstore.”
“That’s nice,” said Dave.  A glazed look crossed his eyes as he cocked his head to one side in bewilderment.

From this bit of encouragement, Sophia launched into the same discussion of her favorite characters, which she had with Zoe earlier in the day. Two sentences in, Sophia glanced at Zoe’s slitted eyes, which screamed “change the subject,” and once again, Sophia stopped in mid-stream, failing to complete a cogent thought.
“I never saw The L Word,” said Nick.
“Neither did I,” said his brother.
“Well, okay then,” said Sophia as she pushed several slices of cheese into her mouth as if to plug the portal through which stupid thoughts could not escape her brain.

Despite Sophia’s incompetence at coherent speech, Nick realized that she suffered from nerves, and he found her very attractive, so he tried once again to engage her by asking whether she liked to travel. Since Sophia’s mouth was too full of cheese to answer, Zoe jumped in and told the men about their recent trip to Naples, Florida, which spawned Sophia’s desire to move to Naples as soon as the house she planned to rent became vacant. Zoe also explained how a complication with the owner of the house and the departing tenants held up Sophia’s original timetable, and that Sophia was frustrated because she had packed everything in her New Hampshire home, and just awaited the final word that the Florida house was free. Zoe hoped that perhaps this explanation would help justify Sophia’s strange behavior.

Unfortunately, when Zoe mentioned Sophia’s imminent move, Zoe’s emotions suddenly rushed to the surface, and she decided to contain them by also stuffing her mouth with cheese. So, when Dave asked Zoe what her plans were for the evening, Zoe tried to explain that she and Sophia were going dancing at a lesbian bar. But it came out as “doeing dandding ah a desblian blah.”

Sophia’s palate was clear by this time, so she translated for Zoe. And just as Sophia was about to invite the men to come along, Zoe coughed and gagged on her cheese. Since snot ran from her nose, she was able to spit the blob of cheese into a napkin and blow her nose at the same time. The The brothers were very cordial in the way they placed fifty bucks on the table as they said their goodbyes and hurried out the door.

“That went well,” said Sophia.
“Not too bad,” said Zoe.
“You know, I’m too tired to go dancing tonight.”
“Me too. Let’s just go home. We can save our dancing energy for next week when we go to New York City.”

As Zoe and Sophia stepped outside into dusk, muted lights sought to twinkle. They walked in silence for a minute in the soothing, warm air then Sophia said, “I read a quote yesterday that I really liked.”
“What did it say?”
“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”

“Was that a Buddhist thing, Sophie?”
“Sounds like.”

Again, the two friends walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Sophia turned to Zoe and asked, “WHERE ARE WE GOING?”
Zoe turned and smiled at Sophia as she then asked,  “AND WHAT WILL WE FIND?”
As Sophia climbed into the passenger seat of Zoe’s car, she said, “I BELIEVE WE’VE HIT THE INHERENTLY UNKNOWABLE IMPASSE.”
“YES, I BELIEVE WE HAVE,” said Zoe as she pulled out into the city traffic.

As the two astonishingly confused, but shimmering fifty-something best friends wove along the back streets of Boston, they danced, straining against their seatbelts. Jill sang Living My Life like its Golden, while Zoe and Sophia belted out the tune, roaring like lionesses. And as darkness closed the curtain on the day, they raced over the Tobin Bridge heading toward home, off on another adventure as the Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being.

To be continued…but if you want to read the whole story, start at the bottom of the blog.  Easiest access is to click on the bolded dates in the calander to the right of the story.  And keep sending in your wonderful comments.  Thank you.

Please send your ADVICE to two single women, whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos! Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years, find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They need advice from anyone willing to help them. For instance, what advice would you give your BFF if she asked, “WHY DOES MOVING TO FLORIDA FEEL SO RIGHT EVEN THOUGH I’M UPROOTING MYSELF FROM MY LOVED ONES AND EVERYTHING FAMILIAR THAT I CHERISH?” Any advice you can give to Sophia would be helpful, but this is what Zoe said.

As the sun began to rise, Sophia lay sleeping in her 1770 home in New Hampshire. Canada geese squawking overhead awakened her. Voltaire, her border collie, lay by Sophia’s side. She tried to reach over to pat him, but her huge Maine Coon cat, Tolstoy, was asleep on her stomach, pinning Sophia on her back like a beetle. She poked Tolstoy until he moved off, then she rolled over and wrapped her arms around Voltaire, smelling the scruff of his neck. Finally, she arose, walked to the french doors of her bedroom, and looked down at the lake behind her house. A few feet beyond the doors, mist hovered over two weathered rocking chairs, where several birds perched. When Sophia opened the French doors, her pets bounded outside, and the birds took flight.

Sophia stepped out of the room and stood on the dew drenched grass for a moment. She breathed deeply the spring air, which reminded her of a San Diego dawn in December, delicious and inviting. When she turned to go back indoors, her eyes scanned boxes of books, suitcases filled with clothes, paintings stacked against the wall, and electronic cords wrapped with tape. Contemplating another day of sorting, discarding, lifting, cleaning and packing heightened the stiffness in her limbs. Anticipating another day of culling through decades of joy, struggle, pleasure, pain, dreams, disappointments, love, and loss deepened the heaviness in her heart. But what she tried to avoid was starting the day feeling anger and pain about her husband Marty’s betrayal and departure from the marriage. Her move to Florida was an attempt to regain the spirit that seeped from her daily, an attempt to retake her power instead of handing it over to him, like a nameless servant delivering wine to a drunk king.

Zoe sat at the kitchen table of her 1790 house on the same lake, five miles up the road. She’d been awake since four o’clock, unable to shake off an anxiety dream that awakened her. In front of Zoe was a compartmentalized box containing hundreds of beads. Until recently, her laptop would have sat where the beads now were, and Zoe would have been studying the pictures and informational profiles of dozens of strangers on dating websites. But she had decided to stop obsessively connecting online with men, and instead, spent countless hours stringing beads onto wire, creating an exquisite line of necklaces and earrings. Her devotion to filling time this way stemmed from an intense need not to feel alone. That need was especially strong as she pushed from her mind Sophia’s eminent move to Florida.

Zoe looked at her watch, hoping Sophia was awake. Just then her phone rang.
“Hey, Zo. Whatcha doin?”
“Beading. You?”
“Getting ready to start more packing.”
“You need help?”
“I need boxes. Help is good too,” said Sophia. “Why are you beading at this hour?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why not?”
“Stress. Do you have any food at your house?”
“Not much,” said Sophia.
“You wanna go out for breakfast?”
“Not really. Once I get my packing momentum going, I don’t like to stop.”
“You gotta eat,” said Zoe.
“Why?”
“Duh.”
“Shut up. Okay, I’ll go out to breakfast with you.”
“I’ll be over in bit. You need anything?”
“Some dog food. I’m almost out.”
“Hey, you must be so happy to have Voltaire back with you.”
“Zoe, I can’t even describe what a source of comfort and joy he’s been.”
“Has Marty tried to fight you about keeping the dog?”
“Marty who?”

When Marty left the marriage to go live with his girlfriend, Fugly, he took the dogs, Voltaire and Dickens with him. Fugly was married to a famous musician, who was the son of someone really famous, Famous Father. When Fugly moved out of the marital home, she left behind three small children whom she saw on a visitation schedule. Pressure was applied in such a way that Marty had not been allowed to stay at Fugly’s on the nights she had visitation. So, for months Marty stayed those nights at a dumpy motel near Fugly’s house. The dogs were not allowed to stay at the motel. But rather than letting the dogs stay with Sophia on those nights, Marty insisted they stay at Fugly’s, and Sophia suspected it was because Fugly wanted the dogs to be her dogs, the same way she wanted Sophia’s husband to be her boyfriend. From the day Sophia met Fugly, before Fugly and Marty started their affair, when the two were first involved in the project funded by Famous Father, Sophia’s impression of Fugly was that she was a predatory woman without boundaries, who took whatever she wanted out of a ruthless sense of entitlement.

Just a few weeks before, after months of absence, Marty re-entered Sophia’s life and said he wanted to reconcile with her. They spent two intense, (and at times brutal), weeks together before Marty returned to Fugly. Sophia figured out the main reason Marty decided to come home was to force Fugly’s hand about living with her full time, not just on the “off visitation” nights. Fugly had probably called Marty’s bluff when he threatened to return to Sophia if he couldn’t get what he wanted. But Marty never bluffed without being willing to carry out the threat behind it. Once Fugly took care of her end regarding the children, Marty left Sophia again, and moved in full-time with Fugly.

When Marty left the second time, again he took the dogs, despite Sophia’s repeated pleading that Voltaire and Dickens belonged to Sophia just as much as they did to Marty. Then, serendipity intervened. On their first weekend back together as a couple, Marty and Fugly wanted to go off for a romantic getaway. Rather than asking Sophia to tend the dogs, Marty asked their daughter Poppy and her husband Fonzi to care for the dogs. Poppy mentioned the arrangement to Sophia on the phone.

After Sophia’s call with Poppy ended, she tried to calm the rising torment and rage. But inside, something cracked and Sophia began to scream and scream. She screamed so long and so loudly that she thought her voice might travel the distance of an ocean. When the screaming finally stopped, Sophia sat limply in a chair in front of the fireplace, sobbing. And then, Sophia decided to stand up, to take back her power.
Sophia drove to Poppy’s home. During the drive she thought about what to tell Poppy and Fonzi to explain her actions. But when Sophia tried to talk, she couldn’t be heard. Her voice was too hoarse from the strain of screaming. Instead of speaking, when Sophia opened Poppy’s front door, she whistled to Voltaire, the ten-year-old border collie. He ran straight to her, wagging his tail. She gestured for Voltaire to follow her outside, and then she closed the door. It broke her heart to leave young Dickens behind, but Sophia wanted to be fair. She wouldn’t dream of depriving Marty of both dogs.

“Sophie, are you there,” hissed Zoe. “You zoned out on me.”
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Tell me what happened when you told Marty you were keeping Voltaire?”
“I didn’t tell him. I texted him. I said if he fought me on this, then I would have a ‘voice.’”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“He knew what I meant. Marty has too much at stake and too much to hide from Fugly, particularly about what went on here and what was said while he was back with me. My “voice” will speak the truth, and he can’t risk that. He has to live in the shit he created for himself. But I don’t wanna hurt him. I just wanted my fucking dog back. Now, Voltaire is home, and that’s all I care about.”
“You sound empowered, Sophie. Good for you. Look, I gotta go. I’ll see you in a bit.”

As Zoe stood in the shower, a sense of excitement about spring began to stir in her. Hot water jettisoned her back, down her bottom and onto her thighs as she thought how novel it would be to buy food and actually cook a meal. A hot brunch would make a nice change from the Chex Mix and Nutella that Sophia practically lived on these days. Perhaps they could eat outside in the one of Sophia’s many gardens.

After Zoe slathered her body with lotion and blow-dried her hair, she selected clothes to wear and carried them into the kitchen to dress. But as she walked past the table, she glanced at the bead box and decided to create just one more pair of earrings before driving to Sophia’s. Zoe strung a fabulous dangly earring with tiny, pale jade beads mixed with even more delicate crystals and one pink onyx teardrop bead at the end. When she looked for a second teardrop bead to make the other earring, she realized she’d used the last one.

Why the lack of a bead became so bewildering was hard to say, but Zoe felt abandoned suddenly by her beads. Knowing her reaction was absurd, she pushed away from the table and walked outside to see whether any daffodils were open yet. As Sophia had earlier, Zoe breathed in the spring smells. And there was some quality about that amazing spring air that gripped her with yearning to be with a man again. It had been weeks. As if guided by a force beyond her control, Zoe walked back inside, turned on her laptop, and fell to the temptation of her dating sites.

For the next three hours, Sophia tried calling Zoe several times, but she didn’t answer. Concerned that Zoe might be living on Planet Nuts, Sophia decided to take Voltaire up the road to Zoe’s. The day felt like mid-June rather than early April, and Sophia lowered the car windows, letting the warm air stream in. When she drove into the yard, Sophia’s eyes widened at the glorious sight of hundreds of opened daffodils growing in flower beds and around trees that surrounded Zoe’s home.

Sparky, Zoe’s stroke-impaired yellow lab lay in the sunshine on the front porch. He struggled to his feet, dragged his hind end down the three porch steps then ran sideways out to the car to greet his guests. Normally, Sparky was less than keen on Sophia’s visits, and he was even less ardent about visiting at Sophia’s house. He thought Sophia was a bitch who monopolized his lovely Zoe. She also lived with that mean, bully-boy Tolstoy, the biggest, most intimidating, territorial cat Sparky had ever known. Except for the food Sparky stole from Tolstoy’s bowl and the cat crap he enjoyed as dessert, Sparky saw no point in gracing Tolstoy or Sophia with his presence. But today, his senses told him Sophia had brought someone so special, that he could overlook Sophia’s shortcomings. Voltaire was back!

Voltaire danced around in the back seat the minute he heard Sparky’s howl. Sparky and Voltaire had loved each other since they were puppies. Voltaire thought Sparky’s stroke was an unfortunate turn of events, but Sparky certainly had more vigor than the last time Voltaire saw him. The minute Sophia opened the back door of her car, Voltaire bounded out and the two old friends dashed across a field and into the woods to wrestle and catch up on old times.

Sophia hurried into the house in search of Zoe. She found her at the kitchen table sitting in her bra and panties, with the clothes she’d neglected to dress in still slung over a chair next to her.
“Fuck sake, Zoe, what happened to breakfast?”
“Hi,” said Zoe, looking up at her friend with a distant dreaminess in her eyes.
“You’re cruising the dating sites, aren’t you?”
“I was missing a bead.”
“Huh?”
“I’m just gathering pen pals, Sophie. No dating, I promise.”
“Why are you promising me that, Zo? You’re an adult, single woman. You can do anything you wanna do.”
“Yeah, but I’m afraid you’ll judge me.”
“Not my dealeo. You’re the one who thought the dating site business was becoming compulsive. I don’t judge anything you do. I love you just as you are.”
“Thank you, Sophie.  Are you hungry?”
“Not really. But are you gonna get dressed today?”
“I guess I should.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here. It’s gorgeous outside.”
“I don’t know, Sophie. I’m pretty happy sitting right here.”
“Suit yourself. But I’m going back home then. I’ve got shit to do.”
“Like what?”
“Well, apart from sorting and packing up the house and barn, I haven’t even cleaned out my flower beds.”
“Why are you gonna bother to clean out all those beds? You’re not going to be living there?”
“My gardens are a masterpiece I spent nearly two decades cultivating. I can’t just let them go—not while I can still see them. Zoe, I gotta tell  ya–you are acting really weird.”
“Am I?” asked Zoe as her eyes slowly drew away from Sophia’s and focused once again on the laptop screen filled with strangers’ faces
“I’ll see you later,” said Sophia. Zoe didn’t bother to respond. Outside, Sophia whistled to Voltaire who reluctantly parted from Sparky.

As she drove home, Sophia felt odd. Sensing a disconnect from Zoe was foreign to her. But once home, she shook off the feeling by putting on some Cuban jazz.  Then she changed into a bathing suit and rubbed olive oil onto her legs and arms. Her mood lightened instantly as she danced out to the barn to find a rake, with Voltaire prancing by her side, trying to herd Sophia’s every step. Before long, Sophia was enraptured as each rakeful pulled back layers of leaves, revealing the very tops of thousands of plants, which were just pushing through the soil of her twenty flower beds. To someone who didn’t know flowers, they just looked like masses of green things. But Sophia could see in her mind’s eye what they would look like when they bore the blossoms of lilies, oriental poppies, foxglove, phlox, peonies, roses, purple coneflower, coreopsis, campanula, Shasta daisies, bee balm and a myriad of other flowers. Soon, Sophia was talking to them, to her “babies.”

Several hours later, Zoe grew hungry. She still sat at her table and starred at her laptop as she sent off dozens of pithy emails to men she cared nothing about. It wasn’t until her stomach churned after one particularly interesting exchange, that she noticed Sophia’s absence. She felt something akin to panic when she realized the place to which she had let herself go. Zoe picked up her phone and called Sophia, but there was no answer. Hurriedly, Zoe dressed and dashed from the house, calling to Sparky. Excitedly, Sparky galloped sideways toward the car, involuntarily dropping turds in his wake, a common expression of Sparky’s delight. Together, they jumped in her car and barreled toward Sophia’s house.

When Zoe drove into Sophia’s, she heard loud music blasting from the windows and noticed that all six doors stood open. Tolstoy, dreading the sight of that bitch Zoe and her moronic, lame dog Sparky, sprinted into the woods.  But Voltaire barked with glee and ran to greet them. Sophia was nowhere in sight. Zoe walked inside, looked around mystified then called out for Sophia. As Zoe walked through each room, she was appalled by what she saw. Finally, she hurried back outside and walked down to the rose garden, which was surrounded by a white picket fence. Under the white arbor she saw a massive pile of leaves thrashing all by itself, and she heard the low tones of unmistakable keening. Next to the leaf pile lay a rake, which Zoe picked up and used gently to poke the gyrating, noisy heap. Before long, Zoe uncovered Sophia curled in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face.

“Fuck sake, Sophie. Why are you under the leaves?”
“I don’t know. I guess it feels safe here.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m bonding with my earth before it’s not mine anymore.”
“That makes no sense. Stand up.”
“No.”
“You have avoided living on Planet Nuts for awhile now. What happened?”
“I started thinking,” said Sophia as she sat up. Leaves clung to her hair and face.
“Meaning?”
“I realized once I move, Marty will bring Fugly here, and they will claim this land as theirs. They will sit and walk and play amidst the beauty I labored to create for so many years. It will be as if I never existed.” With this, Sophia wound into a whole new round of sobs.
Zoe sat down next to Sophia in the leaves and rubbed her head.
“Sophie, here’s a visual that might ease your pain. Picture Fugly, who looks and walks like a troll, stomping around the grounds on her gross, misshapen thighs with the purple pimples on them. She’s apt to offend the flowers. And you know she is gonna scare away the birds with that weird, manly voice of hers.”

Sophia began to laugh and Zoe joined in, then they both lay down on the leaves and stared up at the blue sky.
“Sophie, you’ll create new, magical gardens, tropical ones. Won’t that be fun?”
“You’re right. It’s just hard to let go.”
“By the way, what the fuck is going on inside the house?”
“What do mean?”
“You’re not just packing up. You’ve re-designed the rooms.”
“I want to leave the house looking beautiful, different, but still beautiful.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.”
“If I were you, I’d just move my shit out and walk away.”
“I can’t do that, Zo.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The place looks incredible. I miss your antique blue and white china on the mantelpiece but I see why you replaced it with the muted pottery.  It’s more masculine.  But how come you’re leaving so many of your paintings behind? Never mind that.  Why are you leaving the house perfectly arranged?  Is it to please Marty–so he’ll remember you a certain way?”
“Hard to say,” said Sophia as she paused to think for a moment. “Not really, I guess. I just can’t leave it all ugly and empty looking. My spirit is in this house. It’s not fair to the house. Also my family will visit here, and I want it to look nice for them. Marty has no imagination when it comes to decorating. He hangs pictures too high and doesn’t really think about colors and spatial relationships that complement one another, things like that.”
“You need to stop caring, Sophie. You have to let go.”
“I know. But I’ve never been able just to drop anything and walk away leaving a mess.”
“Kinda like Marty did with your marriage and your so-called reconciliation?”
“That’s how Marty and I differ. I like tidy endings, Zo. You know that.”

Just then, Zoe remembered why she’d rushed over to find Sophia in the first place. She sat up quickly and thought for a moment how she would broach the subject. But she couldn’t come up with a graceful segue, so she just took a deep breath and dove in.
“We have dates tonight.”
“WHAT?” cried Sophia.
“And they’re coming here to pick us up?”
“HUH? When did you arrange these dates?”
“This afternoon. I’ve just been doing a little rekindling of on-line friendships, that’s all.”
“Okay,” said Sophia, shaking her head in resignation.
“Don’t worry,” said Zoe calmly. “We already know these guys. We had dinner with them in Portsmouth a few months ago. They’ve been friends with each other for years. You know, the ones from Boston. One of them is an accountant and the other teaches literature at Emerson College. Anyway, they’re up here on a fishing trip for the weekend. In fact, they’re staying on the lake, just down the road.”
“And they’re coming here because?”
“I thought it would be easier if they picked us up.”
“Jesus, Zoe. I’m not sure I can pull it together to be charming tonight.”
“How’s that different from the last time we had dinner with them?”
“Fuck you.”
“What would you be doing instead, Sophie? Crying? Watching old DVDs of Nash Bridges with your boyfriend Don Johnson?
“No, you bitch. I finished watching all those. I would be watching the second season of The L Word.”
“I thought you didn’t watch TV.”
“I don’t. I was in the bookstore the other day, and they were having a sale on DVDs. Early seasons of The L Word were the cheapest thing on the sale table. I got the whole first season for ten bucks. It was worth every penny to save my sanity in the middle of the night. According to my shrink, my psyche’s had a setback, which translates into intrusive thoughts and uncontrolled crying, especially at night. When I’m this bereft, I can’t concentrate enough to read. But I can’t watch crap either. With something well-made, I’m engaged enough to find a little peace.”

“I’ve seen a few episodes of The L Word,” said Zoe, smiling. “What do you like about it?”
“I love all of it,” said Sophia. “But it’s kinda funny how behind I am on everything. Entire shows air on cable, run a few years, have finales, and I don’t see them until they end up in boxed sets on the bargain table of bookstores.”
“Well, no one would accuse you of being in the loop, Sophie.”
“Just as well. Anyway, I love the lesbians and their friendships. And I think the writing and acting are amazing. You know, I might try writing some screenplays.”
“You should ask your agent what he thinks.”
“I will. So what time are these guys picking us up?”
“Eight.”
“That’s in two hours. We’d better shower.”

A little while later, the two old friends stood in bras and panties, in front of the bathroom mirror, rubbing moisturizers over their slender bodies and long, lean legs. After they dried their blond hair, their eyes met in the mirror as they artfully applied subtle make-up.
“Zoe, why am I having such a hard time letting go of my marriage?”
“As you pack and sort through all the stuff that reminds you of the wonderful years, your emotions get stirred up.”
“It’ horrible.  I can find no peace here.  I hate Marty. He’s a fucking bastard.”
“That’s the problem, Sophie. You don’t hate him. You’ve tried to feel indifferent toward him, but that doesn’t work because you still love him. Then he rejected you again, so all you’re left with is hate, but it’s not hate at all. If you could just understand that he’s not a very good man. He’s acutely narcissistic and is absolutely incapable of holding himself accountable for his actions. In his mind everyone else is the problem. With Marty, there’s no gray, no middle ground. He’s always the hero of every story, so if people don’t worship Marty, he dislikes them. Right now, he spurns you because you hold up a mirror of himself that he doesn’t want to see. Anyway, fuck Marty. Why are we talking about him?”

“Wow, Zo. You sound like my therapist.”
“Can we talk about a far more pressing matter, Sophie? Me? I’m having trouble thinking about your move. It’s really starting to depress me, even scare me a little.”
“Me too, Zo. I can’t bear the thought of us being so far apart. Yet….”
“Yet, what?”
“ZOE, WHY DOES MOVING TO FLORIDA FEEL SO RIGHT EVEN THOUGH I’M UPROOTING MYSELF FROM MY LOVED ONES AND EVERYTHING FAMILIAR THAT I CHERISH?”

Zoe rolled a hank of hair onto the curling iron.  She held the iron still for a couple of seconds.  Then, as she released her grip and a curl sprang free, she answered.  “IT’S ABOUT SAVING YOURSELF, SOPHIE. YOU’VE DECIDED THAT IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN GRASPING AND FIXATING ON THE PAST. YOU’RE NOT AFRAID TO STEP INTO THE GROUNDLESSNESS, THE OPEN SPACE. YOU ARE TAKING THE ULTIMATE, FEARLESS RISK. I’M PROUD OF YOU.”

Just then, they heard the doorbell ring.
“Fuck sake, the guys are early,” said Zoe as she dressed quickly and ran to the front door to let in their dates. Zoe greeted the dates warmly and offered them a beer and a seat on the couch. She then went back to the bathroom to check on Sophia. Sophia looked radiant and unusually confident. Zoe followed her to the living room, and they sat across from the men and engaged them in a lively conversation.

Once the four agreed it was time to leave for the restaurant, they stood up and walked through the dining room.  In the kitchen Tolstoy stood over Sparky glowering at him.  He was pissed because he wanted to take a nap next to Voltaire, but Sparky and Voltaire lay curled around each other, sound asleep.  Tolstoy was mortified at having to share Voltaire with Sparky.  As Sophia stepped into the kitchen, she was looking behind her, attempting to come across as demure and flirtatious with the literature professor, a tall, handsome, forty-something man with longish brown hair and beautiful blue eyes. He asked Sophia if she would be willing to look it over a manuscript of his. She said it would be her pleasure. Then just as she asked whether he would be one of her readers too, Sophia walked into the sleeping dogs and started to fall face first. Two strong hands grabbed her by the waist and caught her fall. She turned and blushed, smiling up into the man’s lovely eyes. She realized she really liked this man, and suddenly she felt that distant, almost forgotten tingling, of sexual longing.

“Wait a sec,” said Zoe, “We better let the dogs out before we take off.” Zoe opened the door and the dogs trotted outside. Zoe then closed the door and leaned her back against it, smiling up seductively at her date, a handsome, bald, fit, African American man.  Just then, they heard a terrible clatter, and the dogs bayed pitifully to be let back inside. The source of their desperation was no secret.

Sparky and Voltaire lurched through the doorway, frothed at the mouth, and then ran in circles as their stunned, miserable eyes sought Zoe’s and Sophia’s. The men jumped back at first and then bolted from the house, followed by Tolstoy. Zoe and Sophia just looked at each other frantically.
“FUCK,” they said in unison, “Skunk.”

After the dogs galloped through the downstairs and up to the second floor, the women finally cornered then and drove them back outside. Zoe and Sophia declined the meek offer of help from the men. Instead, they stood in the doorway waving goodbye to their dates, trying to look sexy while gagging on the dense, ghastly smell. Sophia’s date held his thumb and little finger to his ear and mouthed “I’ll call you.” But Sophia wondered vaguely whether he would.

Like reluctant soldiers going into battle, the women forged ahead with the necessary tasks. Sophia ran around the house and opened dozens of windows while Zoe made a bathing concoction for the dogs. It took both women to lift each dog into the bathtub for soaking, and even then, the dogs were so startled, so overwhelmed by the direct skunk hit, that they splashed much of the solution onto the bathroom floor.

Two hours later, Zoe and Sophia knew the smell was still too strong to sleep in the house, so they piled the dogs into the back of Zoe’s car. But just before driving away, Sophia opened her door and jumped out.
“I forgot something,” she called to Zoe as she ran back into the house.
When Sophia reappeared, she juggled in her hands boxed DVD sets of The L Word and the book When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron, Zoe’s and Sophia’s favorite American Buddhist writer.
“What are you doing?” asked Zoe.
“I thought maybe we could read a bit of Pema. After that, I want to watch these shows. I like my imaginary lesbian friends, plus the stories are full of important political ideas and poignant universal themes about love, loss and humanity.”
“God almighty, Sophie, you are so strange.”
“Don’t you want to watch my shows?”
“Maybe I’ll watch them or maybe I’ll bead. Right now, I can’t think about anything but fleeing this disgusting stench.”
“Your house is gonna stink too, you know, just from us.”
“Oh well. It’ll be better after we shower. I think getting skunked was a sign, Sophie.”
“Of what?”
“I fell off the straight and narrow today with the dating websites, and you are creating a footprint rather than detachment with all your work in the house, creating beauty for Marty that he’ll never appreciate.”
Sophia smiled. “Ironically, the embedded skunk odor might be a lingering parting gift for Marty.”
“That would be apt. But I still think the gods are punishing us.”
“That’s ridiculous, Zo. Now, listen to me. I’ve wanted to say this to you for awhile. Most artists are driven by compulsion. As I writer, I know I am. What you’ve done recently is to use your compulsion to create some magnificent jewelry. Most of the creative people I know are filling some black hole or another. It shouldn’t be a source of shame.  When you cruise the web for men, you are compelled to express through words. Now, you’ve transformed that energy into fantastic artistic expression. I’m really impressed.”
“Wow, Sophie, I never thought of it that way.”

“Zo, do you think those guys liked us?”
Zoe shrugged. “Hard to tell—there’s just nothing sexy about skunk musk. So, I wouldn’t call it the most romantic second date, but it wasn’t the worst one we’ve ever had together.”
“Do you think those guys would come over to your house after we shower, you know, for a nightcap?”

“I think they’d rather eat bat shit.”
“Bats shit?

“Everything shits.”

“Was that a Buddhist thing, Zo?”
“Sounds like.”

Once Zoe and Sophia were clean again, they tucked into Zoe’s warm bed. They could barely smell the skunk on themselves as they lay alternating handfuls of Chex Mix with spoonfuls of Nutella. For hours, The L Word drama unfolded, filling the heads of the two old friends with fascinating imagery–until they finally drifted to sleep–off on another adventure as the Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being.

To be continued…but remember, if you want the whole story, begin at the bottom of the blog. The easiest way to find earlier episodes is to go to the calendar in the right-hand column and click on the bolded dates. And please, keep those comments coming. Thanks.