He told me, "I willdrive you to my house and fix you something to eat and drink, and whenyou are ready to leave, I will drive you back here." I smiled... He added,"By then you will be sobered up."When I had downed the third glass of wine, he paid the tab and led meoutside. We walked to his car and he even opened the door for me. I satquietly as he drove me to his house, he was making small talk like he wason a date. He drove into the garage and we got out of the car. He took myhand and led me. Instead she sat for hours in the Village coffee shops just west of campus and wrote lines like Emily Dickinson did—guarded and in silence, locked away in a desk drawer. She didn’t care if the invisible hand of the publishing industry passed over her or not.Back then, publishing didn’t even qualify as a desire. Success with her work didn’t qualify either, and she didn’t think Preston cared much about success either, only cared about her instead. She took her own poetry less seriously than the. More

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