I see that it has once again been five days since I posted here, and I wonder to myself if in some way I have disappeared in the meantime, melted into the ether. I wonder what happens to the image of me you hold in your mind when I do not write about myself: does it hold very still, like something frozen? Does it lose all its color and fade away, like photographs of a person who has gone back into the past and erased her grandparents’ meeting in a time-travel movie? Do you imagine that my days away from my blog are neat blank voids, clean as a crossword puzzle before you unfold the morning paper? Or do you invent for me amusing pastimes based on the personality you imagine me to have—do I go square dancing? Do I write letters? Do I play hopscotch and drink peppermint schnapps?

Here is one thing: I listened to someone read 126 words from page 57 of Lolita. Felt the pleasurable warmth of recognition. Called out, loudly but not loudly enough, “Lolita!” Failed to win a drink. Felt happy anyway.