It is February 1st and it is raining in Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA.
We five are sitting in a hot tub. There are three women and two men. Everyone is married, though not necessarily to anyone else in the hot tub.
The hot tub is outside, fenced in, nested under an ash tree pagoda formed by wiring and binding three trees together into this hut, this
The hot tub is cleaned using citrus juice and hydrogen peroxide. The three trees are healthy and old and intertwined just like you'd imagine the best bonsai hut, ever, should be.
We five are taking turns laughing, and recounting, and sharing two bottles of cheap champaign and we are all completely naked.
One of the women just sold her first book, she is paying for everything tonight, on the advance. She's laughing and spilling the champaign into the hot tub and we're all laughing now and she's telling us there's an email in her inbox and one of the men is laughing at that word: inbox.
"That's a silly word," He says and we all agree.
This dates us all, but you'd date us all, too. (Doesn't matter, we'd probably not call you more than once, and only out of courtesy.)
"Right," she says, breasts bobbling in the froth of the hot tub, "but listen." She tells us how this email is from someone important at Universal Studios. How it is under an email from someone important at Bad Robot studios.
We all sit and think about that for a minute.
POP Goes another bottle of champaign and the taller of the two men is laughing and swallowing and one of the women, the shortest, bustiest, is telling him: Open your throat; relax; let it down you.
The other two women are kissing and the man, the quiet man, watches for a moment, then turns his attention to deciphering which trees are knotted together where, in the steam and the rain and the ice above him.