My jacket pockets are full of shopping lists. I can feel them with my fingertips. They’re documents of Edi’s discomfort and pleasure: watermelon, Italian ice, good chocolate with sea salt, lip balm, maxi pads, champagne, egg salad. Evidence of her desires, her existence. I can’t bring myself to recycle them, but can’t think where to put them. So for now they’re just here, in my pockets. Maybe I’ll put this jacket back on in the fall, and they’ll still be there. That’s okay, though, right?
