She wrote, sometimes, but it was scraps—her love of books never quite translated into writing of words of her own. She’d come to believe that her creative work, her truest art, was held in three things: her nights with lovers, the hut on the beach, and the bar in the basement, all of them perversions according to the world. But she couldn’t speak this. It would become laughable the second she did. “I’m not a real poet.”
