We are supposed to be writing, my friend and me. That's what this is—a writing weekend with two friends at work on their books.

She writes a memoir. I compose a novel, although I am not a novelist.

Memoir is my preferred approach to the word but it seems I've written myself out of such tales. My life makes compete sense to me now or at least this is what I tell myself.

Is it true?

After the dog on the beach and my fixation over the teacher who doesn't understand my son, I am restless and cannot sit still to write.

"Let's go look at the statues."

This comes from my friend Anne. Dark hair, tiny form, a lovely woman, two grown kids. A fine writer. A precious gem of a friend. Reliable and steady. Good listener. Anne has heard all my bitching and moaning and complaining. She is my go-to friend. I take all my trouble to Anne.

"I have to write," I say.

"I know, me too, just a quick look and we'll come back, we'll write."

I roll my eyes. I know this isn't true. We will not write. We will fuck off and talk and find ways to spend money and then drink wine and watch the sunset. The day is nearly gone and I haven't written a word. Not one.

We look at each other and then I look at the blank page of my computer.

"Fine, let's go look at art."

Out the door, across the street, salty wind at our backs and the sun falling fast, we enter a gallery that is no bigger than a good sized bedroom. The woman who greets us isn't the owner but a lawyer who uses the space as an office. She is welcoming and kind. She tells us to look around, enjoy, relax.

What I notice first is how the walls hold paintings, modern Monet's that interpret the beach in golds and silver and red and blue. Beautiful.

[image error] I go right for the art on the wall because I like to paint too. I have huge canvases at my house, my own work. I dabble in this kind of thing but am not a professional. My children command most of my attention. I tell myself I'll paint when I am older—when the kids are gone—it's the song of the mother titled: "When the children grow up."

"Look!" Anne says.

She touches a marble statue with her open curious hands. The form is wide hipped and small breasted. Anne touches another one with narrow hips and larger breasts. She is fearless.

The marble forms are all the same, these neck down, thigh up mid-sections of women's forms in gray, alabaster, pink and black stone. Each shape has been rubbed smooth and shaped feminine. Anne now holds her hands on the waist of a gray stone form. She owns one of these busts already. It's at home, on her writing table.

I keep my hands to myself though. Don't touch. Won't touch. If I touch I might want.

The one that draws my attention is across the room. It is gray and white with slim hips and compact boobs.

Me!

With my arms tighter over myself, I cross the room and examine the price tag.

Three thousand dollars!

Are you kidding me?

No.

Won't touch.

Will not touch.

"Don't they feel amazing?" Anne asks. She moves to an amber form with a tummy and wide hips and is so happy to be touching this lovely shapes that she doesn't realize I'm holding back.

"Do you want some wine?" the gallery owner asks. She is small woman in black, black, black. Shoe, pants, top, coat. Even her earmuffs are black. Her eyes are bright. Wealth is her scent.

I shake my head, no thanks.

"I'm making mulled wine," she says, as if to tempt.

"No, I have to write," I say and glance over at Anne for support. "We have to get back to our room and write."

Anne nods like this is true and takes her hands from the amber form.

I am sure, if I wasn't here, Anne would have a glass of wine. Anne is better that way, with moments and with relaxing and with being in the flow of life.

I am all work. No play.

Anne is fun.

"Latte?" the woman tries again. "Tea? Water?"

No, no, no thank you, I shake my head even as I know I would do well to just have some wine and relax already.

And yet another part of me holds tight to the plan, the habit, the condition of writing that I must get back to because it is safe and cheap and makes sense.

The woman finally goes off to make herself some mulled wine.

Anne touches another statue, this one is dark and curvy and lovely, like she is. She has given herself over, fully, to the sensual experience of art appreciation.

Finally I reach out, touch the cool marble of the form that costs three thousand dollars!

The marble is cool against my hands, surprisingly cold and yet it warms as I move my palms at the hips and then up the back. The stone is alive. And so smooth.

Anne smiles over at me. Her dark eyes are so bright, as if the light of the stone has filled her up.

"This one is really beautiful," I say.

Anne comes over and looks at the statue with me. She doesn't touch this one. This one is mine.

"I like it," she says. "It reminds me of you."

"I know," I say.