of an artistic life, she had walked by me for the fourth
time. He said, "Have you noticed? Four walk-bys." I
informed him I was aware, making sure to notice her
nonchalant black dress, her daringly full breasts, and
her lips, two high-school dreams still unfulfilled. She
was in the kitchen, me in the hallway, leaning casually
against the lintel of the doorway, where I stole glances
and Brad, a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, emancipated
me from my silence by introducing himself, with me
to follow. Her name was Claire, a sort of wonderful,
windy sound reminding me of mid-summer in Maine,
when the breeze had died and the sun was setting,
and the twilight spread out like a picnic blanket before
the fireworks. I joked with her about the inconstancy
of an actor's life and she informed me of her work
at the Strasberg Institute. "So you know what a sunny
day feels like?" I said. "And a cool breeze," she laughed
back. She introduced me to her friend, Jack, whom
I later learned was her boyfriend/blogging partner.
He was smart and sensible in his argyle manner,
but he seemed to be wreathed in cumulus below
his neck, so that when he looked down, he squinted
through the fog to find his better parts. She, beside
him faithfully, seemed made of wood and water,
her deep brown soul a Venus eye-trap, with me
struggling none too fruitfully against her slick wet
walls. And suddenly I saw them as they were:
the depth of her well becoming the steam wrapping
his body. And me, eroding the hard-won walls
like a termite of Eros, chewing through the fabric
of her illusion to open her body to a new ekstasis.
I did not say goodbye, because I knew I would see
her again. This time without the dress.
