My friend Steph once told me she thought I was well grounded. I thought she was crazy for saying that since I was the most ungrounded person I knew. But I never argued with her about it. I liked that she saw something else in me and I let her. Steph's died in a car crash, but sometimes I dream about her. I wonder if she can see me from where she is, and I wonder does she still think I'm well-grounded.

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He told me the panties belonged to a stripper. Like I didn't already know about her. I guess the idea of some anonymous stripper is supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't.

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I went outside in the morning dark. The town already wide awake, excited, true. Like the quick intake of breath. Like the root and the stir. Like the clutch of a tongue-tied pinky swear. And packed purposefully into layers of clothes, I went chasing the down and the din.

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I think I'll get Honey another one of those bones for this weekend.

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We like to meet there in the morning, Moses and I, while the temperature is still in the teens. It's mostly quiet then. It's good when there is a fresh snow and it's still white and powdery, before there are footprints in it, and before it's turned to the crunchy, icy stuff. We throw our tennis balls and the dogs fetch them and our fingers get numb in the sharp morning air. We make the first footprints in the snow, and we construct the day. And this is about as real and important as it gets.

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I met her. I haven't told Mike yet. But I did. Last week.

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We've always got more recyclables sitting out there than actual trash.

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My hands are dry and cracked and bruised. When I bend the index finger of my right hand, sometimes the knuckle splits and bleeds. I think this is the way my hands should be. They are more interesting this way. They remind me that they've done things. And that they have purpose. And during morning walks, I sometimes keep my gloves in my pocket and wrap the leash around my bare hand and let my skin go numb in the bitter air to help the process along.

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You stink...

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I had written down some things I wanted to talk to her about the next time we were together. Which I knew probably wasn't going to happen anymore. But still. Just in case, I didn't want to forget. So I had written them on a piece of paper, the kind you get from one of those glue-bound, square scratch pads. But not the kind that are sticky underneath, like post-its. Just simple paper. Three inches by three inches. And maybe three inches high, at least to start off. You know the kind of pad I'm talking about. They usually have some sort of corporate logo on them. But you don't know whose it is. Because you've forgotten how you've come into possession of the pad in the first place. Or why.

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How's the work coming?

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Late at night, when I'm in my office and only the halogen arm lamp above me is on, Honey will sometimes catch a glimpse of my reflection in the sliding glass doors and she'll start barking her deep, burglar-alarm bark.

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I'm jealous of your egg-cracking skills.

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It's not a spot that I can just rub out, either. So maybe spot is a bad word for it. Because spot might imply something akin to gunk or a smudge. Like the sort from a greasy finger that's been dipping into the chunks of rotisserie chicken treats in a coat pocket.

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I'm not sure this is working.

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But we now know the great paradox about that, don't we?

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I came back for my watch. Honey heard me drive up and was barking in the back yard.

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Moses carried his tent and other gear on his back, not in the bed of his truck, the way I'd transported mine to my crowded campground. He'd only brought what was absolutely necessary. A bed. A basic shelter. I suddenly felt embarrassed by my pansy-ass car camping and how Moses didn't seem concerned about not bringing a cooler full of beer with him. Fucker. He probably started a fire with his bare hands. Or his breath. Or by banging his huge testicles against his thighs like thunder claps.

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