I learned late last night that my old friend Lili is dying. There are no alternative treatments left. She may be in her final hours as I type.
She’ll leave behind a husband and two sons and countless people haunted by her saucy eyes, but I can’t make myself focus on these grim, present realities.
I keep thinking about the time we stole out to Key Biscayne in the middle of the night with our friend Antonio and tried to turn the big fountain red. Antonio remembers it as a different fountain, one on Miami Beach, but the details matter less than the feel of that summer.