"Quilt," she said, looking across the gray water. "Patchwork quilt."
"What do you mean?"
"The story is the quilt. Made of patches: this person's face, that person's love, a cat you knew . . . You make up the quilt—the design—but the strength of it, its integrity, comes from the patches." She finished her martini.
Joe's eyes opened wide. "I have to think about that."
"The quilt's the thing," she said offhandedly. "You have to care about it." She swiveled her chair and held her arm in the air. "Another round," she said. "On me."
He agreed and considered what she'd said. "A patchwork quilt. I can see it. What do you do now? Are you writing?"
"Not much. I've been working on songs."
"Oh great," Joe said. "I wish I could play an instrument."
"I have a keyboard that I take with me."
"Take with you? Do you travel a lot?"