Connie

We sit on low benches at the thick wooden table, drinking tea. We open letters with a wood-handled ice pick. I cut my finger on an envelope. I ask Connie for a band-aid. She gets one, takes the paper off, wraps it around my finger. I smile, thank her, and start another letter:

Dear X, Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, this doesn't quite suit our needs. Best of luck. Sincerely. I give it to Connie to sign. "You write the best rejection letters," she says.

One Christmas I gave her a glass swan with gold-tipped wings and beak. She hung it in the window, where it filled with light and glowed. I loved giving her presents. Writing paper or notecards for each birthday. For Christmas, a silver scarf. A Tiffany address book. A picture of her elderly cat in a little gold-painted frame. Last year, a round flowered box for a roll of stamps.

Connie puts on her jacket and work gloves, goes out to the shed to get wood to fill the stove. She doesn't want help, so I don't ask. She feeds the fire. When she's done, she sits on the window seat and strokes her cat.

"Anything good?" she says.
"Maybe. This one might work."
"It's so nice," she says, "to work with someone who has such similar taste."

Later we will talk about my novel, about what we're reading, about movies and the weather and travel. Maybe she will even read our horoscopes from Vogue. Connie will make us open-faced toasted cheese sandwiches. She will cut them diagonally and serve them with a paper dinner napkin and cookies.

But for now, the fire is warm at my back. Connie, across from me at the table, has her glasses on and a pen between index and middle finger. We both have things to read. I will remember this moment forever.