Failure

In about 2000, an email arrived at the day job. It was from Cher, who asked that it be forwarded to me. She wanted to say Hi. So I wrote back and said Hi, and she told me where she now worked, which was a shop I knew. Over the next year or so, I paid her maybe five or six two-minute visits, and she was pleasant but distant, and, sotto voce, she complained to me that the lights were really blinding because she had a hangover and she just wanted to get away.