We spent a shiftless afternoon in a hot, slow city: Natchez. For most of the day there was no shade where I could leave Ripley in the parked car, so we drove around, went for walks here and there. I sat on the patio of a coffee shop. There was shade out front for the dog, but no wireless at the cafe, so I tried to read a book but found myself listening more to the people at the table next to me. It was one of those horrible places where you ask about the internet and the barista suggests that instead you try a “conversation.” Anyways, somebody told a story about a pair of “gay hairdressers from up north” — Horace and his husband, very sweet people — who lived on a lake somewhere nearby.