“It’s never as good as you think it’s going to be,” Lara said. It was after midnight in Santa Fe. Drunk on red wine, she and I stood near a firepit at the hotel, a few steps from a woman named Nadia. My wife and I had been broken up during that time, years ago. I wanted to kiss Nadia. Earlier we’d talked about Vietnamese food; she’d touched my ear, her shoulder smelled of lilacs. After Nadia left, I wandered among adobe guesthouses. I looked in windows. Fall was coming; cold air snapped at my neck. Where was she?
Photo credit: Kate Farnady
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