July 27. The janitor foils our seriousness—our mania. I see him striding limply to work in a pair of black converse all-stars with flames shooting out the sides. If he sees me too he waves low, with his arm stick straight and sweeping wide from opposite hip to Heil-Hitler. He grins a strung-out one. The rumors abound and all of them are believable by his malodorous and careless presence. But he doesn't miss a beat. His memory is seamless, and that is perhaps the most dangerous part.

July 30. Maureen and I went golfing at Pitch-n-Putt as part of her birthday celebration. Maureen is good; she's been taking lessons. She's unequivocally the sexiest golfer there is. We were dressed in dressy dresses for dinner at Carmelita, and we had our handbags with us, which we hauled around, stubby but stylish golf bags. In the middle of the course, the fifth hole, a sweaty, panting man, wearing a buttoned-down shirt and short short runner's shorts, came running up from having hurdled the fence Green Lake path side. Just as I putted and missed, he breathed, "Sorry about the putt, but it's so nice to see you dressed like this out here. Even from far away, you can see your pretty dresses. Thank you for dressing like this." We were like, What's his fetish? What but compulsion possesses a man to hop a fence and risk life and limb trotting across three fairways to pant out such desperate gratitude?

July 31. Angela and I gave trail running a go at Noble Knob. We ran the flats and downhills; we walked the steep uphills. Mt. Rainier dominated the 360 view. Mt Stuart and the gray haze of eastern Washington forest fires could be seen, too. Wildflowers gathered at the trail's edge, and the ridge the trail rode broke away to alpine lakes. We claimed one for ourselves, naked, noble knobs up.