Just written

You’d think instinct would have me grab for Baz, for my son, who I’m supposed to love more than anybody or anything. Instead, I wanted to run my ass out the door, to the car, and take myself to a place where she could never find me, where she wouldn’t even think to look. Sausalito, maybe, where I’d taken him at three weeks old. He barely woke up to see the view, the multiple ice-cream shops plying their sugary wares to tourists. No apple cakes here. Fuck that. Sausalito, where I’d read my work to a Marin audience who sighed in all the appropriate places. Where I’d gotten stoned with Scott long before my uterus went into action, singing Willie Nelson songs, banging at the half-open sunroof of his Solara.