She did not open the journal again for months. Instead she filled her time with work and the few friends she had gathered from the job. She spent weekends at the beach, alone, reading book after book and remembering some of the words she just moved her eyes over but not many in a trance she lost herself in other worlds of the author’s construction the words washing over her verbs and adverbs it never mattered what the book was about but it did matter that the words called to her.
She trolled flea markets and used bookstores, stacking the books by the side of her bed and on top of her TV, eventually obscuring it.
When she was not reading she looked out windows or over hills as she hiked, looking for the same smells and plants from Montant and smiling a little bit when a bird or a leaf reminded her of that week.
She went to prizefights, watching boxers dance in the limelight, people shaking their hands in excitement screaming name and curses and more. She watched the boxers dance around up over left right down each other and then one fell back with intensity and she watched. She went tot he bar where the hung out afterwards, friends yet enemies, swinging back tequila to nurse their aching jaws and sore arms. She talked to them and they fell in love with her grace which was funny because she had been seeking grace for so long and here it was in a chair next to boxers who smiled at her with slightly crooked teeth and broken noses and bruises. They told her secrets and gave her free tickets to more matches though she never went home with any of them they kissed her in moments of passion unable to hold themselves back and she smiled at them, looking at their lost eyes, hoping she would be more. She would hold their hand, letting their fingers and calluses slip through hers, hard spots remembering the gloves and wraps they had just been released from.
They loved her and she loved them and she walked home alone every night, picking up pennies along the way.