I trawl profiles. What am I looking for? Romance? Marriage? Basset hounds?

"It is a discourtesy to let the cat be free when the dog is constantly offended."

“Sei così… non lo so… Americano…” said Camilla. Well, I pleaded weakly, I was.

The American president, in Europe briefly, is whisked from locale to locale as if wrapped in a rug. Security and segregation are now synonymous.

At the door, me: angry at an unannounced intrusion, tendons tensed, spoiling for a fight: it began that way.

Sit long enough and the needle gets blue-collar and vindictive: Tempête.

You decide to tell her about the flavor of wind. How it descends from lapses but defers to hope.

Forget the pope. Ignore Zyklon B’s pungent legacy. That history doesn’t speak to you. Nor does the European red mite.

American reporters could be duped because they lacked the intuitive intelligence to keep them from wholesale sycophancy.

She, exigent, once married to an Albanian prince, her first husband; me, long-haired, casual, dating women from states she'd never heard of.

Other people’s children confound my glibness. They get to the heart of the past, unblinking.