"With her long, slender legs and a small, birdlike voice, Madam Becket is the resident diva of this desert ghost town, the star of the Amargosa Opera House, its paint cracked and peeling, its stage lights built from coffee cans.

She is 79, needs a knee replacement, smells faintly of liniment oil and, to conserve her strength, sleeps most of the afternoon before performances."

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In our freshman dorm, Emily acquired the reputation of "good Emily" while I was known among the social elite as "bad Emily". Ugh. College. But Emily and I needed each other, as anyone needs her opposite. She has always turned my head toward broader horizons, as in this article she sent today.

One day, many years hence, Emily and I will reunite in a castle in Bohemia or a deserted tumbleweed town in the Pampas. Our lives behind us, our families long dead, we will wrap ourselves in crinoline and live off crumpets and chocolate, performing original musical productions for the neighbors and our cats, smelling faintly of liniment oil.