Home and love are hard things for writers to have. Maybe that’s why so many writers pretend we don’t want them. I work alone. I live my work. I should have always lived alone. When I cohabited with G., I carved out “my space,” repeatedly, against the bleeding chunk of us. I travelled to empty myself. By exteriors, I was homey with him; by interiors, I was ravishingly single and alone, but still it wasn’t enough, because at night, after the worst fights, he curled himself around me until he was inside. Slowly, torturingly, I resented him. I wrote the best from furthest away.
We’ve been talking for a while when a boat rows up carrying three teenagers – two girls and a guy. “Oh, my God!” says one of the girls. “Today is my birthday! Can I please take a picture with you?” Swift laughs. “You can, but I don’t know how you’re going to. You’re on a boat, buddy!”
"I’ll get off!" the girl says. "I’ll find a way." Swift and her bodyguard reach out and help her into the pavilion. "You’re going to make me cry!" she says.
"Is it really your birthday?" Swift asks.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen," the girl says.
"Oh, that’s a good year."
"I know. I’m excited."
The girl says she lives on Long Island. She and her friends took the train in for the day. “That’s cute,” Swift says. “Are you going to dinner somewhere?”
The girl scrunches up her face. “We were going to … Chipotle?”
Swift smiles. She goes to her purse and pulls out a wad of cash – $90, to be exact. “Here,” she says. “Go somewhere nice.”
"Oh, my God," the girl says. "Thank you!" She climbs back in the boat, and she and her friends paddle off.