Noel had sent me a package for my birthday once. A manila envelope with a notebook, a pencil, a bar of absinthe chocolate, and a copy of Dangling Man. In the book’s dedication, he scratched out “To Anita” and replaced it with my name. He wrote a small note that smelled of vetiver (a scent most men who have felled me wear) and signed it “Forever yours.”
If he wanted to he would
