Ran into Josie Powell today. Breen. Still beautiful eyes. Womaneyes. How are you, How’s Molly, Milly at a photographer’s, yours? Not sure how many. I didn’t ask. Sad to lose old friends she said when I told her about Dignam. Was once Molly’s closest and mine too, well that’s quite enough about that. Asked about her lunatic husband. Hard to get around to that. Just: quietly: husband? She answered by looking in her purse, chipped rattlesnake. He’s a caution to them she said. Women’s purses. Rummaging, wide open. Money, change, credit cards, used tissues, tampon, lipstick, lipstick, lipstick, phone charger, clean diaper, altoid that was: fell, receipts, hair clips, wrappers, take a number: D26, phone, checkbook, who carries those around anymore, medicine bottle, postcard. Up? U.P. U.P: up. Somebody taking a rise out of him. He went to oyster eyes Menton wearing slippers on his feet; sue for libel. Well he has kids, so there’s the proof of that particular pudding. If that’s what, I don’t know. Up? Meshuggah. The guy is nuts. Not as nuts as Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell who swung past us on the outside of the lampposts. That rat fell into a brewer’s vat and never recovered. Can say the same for Josie Powell. Breen. Shabby, old clothes. Used to be a tasty dresser. Beautiful eyes that night at Luke Doyle’s. Only a year or so older than Molly. Lines around her mouth. Lunch on her shirt. Smells, maybe from her, of butter, flour, demerera sugar. A rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. I could still eat her up.