A ribbon dangles in front of the curtains. In summer the ribbon anchors a fan teetering on the narrow sill. In my memory I see G. giving me a little tiny spool of that very orange ribbon, a mysteriously gratuitous gift. Huh? It’s certainly not my birthday. Is it just something she doesn’t want? It’s certainly orange, her detested color. Even at the time, I am not happy with the way my mind ruminates on possible motives for what is most certainly an innocent act of friendship. Like my poorly ventilated house, my mind occasionally needs a fan.
