It's been a good weekend. I've sold 11 sweaters, and now I'm packing up what's left. I haven't seen Saverio again. Why was I expecting to, hoping to?
Lydia hands me an empanada.
"One of the last ones left." She loves coming here--for the cash and the crowds.
Why do we do this? Why do we stay in our little band on the outskirts of everything? It suits me, but Lydia would be happier here, or in Oslo. But it's hard to move with the seasons, hard to find a place and a living. I guess our little tribe is our place, and so we stay together and make it work the best we can.
The pastry is warm and crispy, all melty in the middle. It warms me in the evening damp.
Tomorrow morning, we'll take the boat back to Puerto Williams, and I'll leave whatever fantasies I had.