Mark's Pages

September 28, 2010:

The Coke machine is covered in ice.

Snow blows from the north. I have a sore throat.

The station attendant asks, "Why don't we fix you up with blondie over there?"

I smile and answer thoughtfully: "No thanks. Already got one."

In the motel that night after only thirty hours apart I write the first of many hundreds of letters, each with the same theme: I miss you, can't wait to be together again.