Today I have had to face the following horrifying and deeply unfair reality: I am extremely, romantically ill. I thought I was just very tired and jet lagged when I slept for 20 hours and then felt woozy yesterday as I wandered all around Florence and along the river and into the wine bar not to mention the hearts of minds of everyone I passed, but when I woke up today at ONE PM and could barely lift my noggin from my pillow, I had to accept that it was not mere jet lag pinning me balefully to the linen. After many attempts to imagine myself over to Dante's house, I finally accepted the woeful reality that if I am to be better tomorrow, and in fantastically good health by Saturday, when Joi arrives, then I really ought to stay in bed and rest in best Garbo-on-her-deathbed-in-Camille fashione. Thank goodness I have with me GOD IS A BULLET, which I bought on Sunday eve at Partners & Crime Mystery Booksellers after asking the woman at the counter for the most hard boiled book they had. I would link to a page about the book except all the sites are coming up in Italian. How inconvenient! But look:

John Lee tosses his keys down on a table in the foyer. ... Stopping in the hallway at the far end of dogleg, he reads the signs: wifey dear at the bar, glass tinkling like the tail of a rattler warning him not to get too close. After a perfunctory hello, he turns and heads toward his study.

Maureen has noticed the bag under his arm and smirks. She turns to watch the smog help kick up a brilliant sunset. John Lee comes back into the room, around the bar, and pours himself a healthy Scotch.

"I talked to Arthur today," says Maureen.

John Lee takes a drink, relaxes into a "so what" look.

"He says he hasn't heard from Bob in over a week."

"Bob is a fuckin' idiot."

Maureen's tongue starts to rim the inside of her mouth. "Really?"

"Really."

"As defined by whom?"

When she sits there like that, with her head cocked up and around and not moving, he is reminded of a deer that has been shot and stuffed.

A page later:

"You're really putting it out there tonight."

"I'm shooting to bat three for four, baby."

There's just too much her, between her and her furniture and her music, so he goes over and shuts the radio off.

"I was listening to that."

"You better watch your mouth tonight, you piece of rank clit. I'm in no mood."

"I'd divorce you, John Lee, but I'd have to give up half the money I earned and then I wouldn't get the pleasure of grinding your guts into the ground a little at a time."

He shoots his drink down. That liquor wash he can feel right up into his pecs.

Pure poetry!! If that can't cure me of my ills, I don't know what will!