Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

10

When I am inside her, she wraps herself around me in a warm embrace. But perhaps you do not see what I mean. She is close, in every part. She is soft, inside and out. That is the point. There is nothing metaphysical about the sensation. And that, I suppose, is appropriate, since there is also nothing much else that is metaphysical. Her softness is that of the water sitting in a pool, its surface undisturbed. Her eyes are reflections into which I can dive, if I choose. Her laughter I have never heard; there is little, in fact, that I know about her yet, although I am happy when she is here. Her softness, to go on, is like the hand of a new born child, only amplified a thousand times. The tissues hold me in place, slide here and there, waving with the motion of waves, of sand falling, of tears trickling down her face. The motion is everything as well – it holds the secret that ties my hands into strange shapes; it rocks my head in the early morning; it caresses my heart and lungs. And she is not here, of all tragedies that have ever fallen on me. She is the combination that sends me to my grave, and calls out in the night when the heat grows too much to bear. Her love is the love impossible and so all the more real, all the more desirable. With it I can, I know, do all the things I dreamed one day of doing.

She breaks my rules, and so lets me look, if only for an instant, at the unsmiling faces of the heavens. They, of course, are bound in strict codes of honor – unfree to move they float above my head, unknown, unknowing. I walk among them, choosing my path carefully. There are dangers (unclear, undeclared, of course) but to me there is only the quick smile that precedes a frown. To read a face is the first thing, to give a present that will be returned later in different form, the second. The third – the third is for us to decide, later perhaps, or now, if we prefer. It is up to us always, our choices are the walls we climb, as well as the stains that cover our hands. But in the evening she will wash my hands, for in her eyes is the love of all man. And afterwards, I will wash her as well, for she is the all, and carries with her the secrets of the universe. You see then, I have succumbed to the dangers, and suffer the consequences. It is the same love, in ever changing form, and it is the same word, turned first one way, then another, that calls my name in the morning. Her promise binds me in a way nothing else could; when she arrives, as she must if I am ever to find my way (lost so soon, unknown, torn to pieces) I will not know her face, her smile will be too slight to make an impression on me, her sigh will be lost in the sound of traffic.

But maybe I am overloading her – for one pair of hands this is too much, might be said. But that is the exact error, you see. For all hands know these first things, and all can carry exactly the part they choose. But the choice is the thing, and defines what follows closely. I make my choices, my calls, my examples too. I make her, closely following the arcane rules of alchemies I do not know. The rules here are vague, poorly defined at best. I consider myself lucky to catch a hint, an echo down a narrow city street. It is the spirit of things, however, that works its way into the center of each letter, each unhinged sign of impending death. The moon, that is, is close to full, and approaches rapidly. And then I will die again, only this time I carry with me her face to the grave. And she will smilingly watch over me as I resurrect, her hands will wash my form into life, the sway of her breasts will hasten the healing (or so at least I hope). I will, in short, be glad to pass, giving up all I have, secure in the knowledge that there will be no more. And that is the promise in her eyes, which she has communicated to me without speaking, without moving, without doing anything at all, in fact.

And she too will die, only her death will be solitary, Her death will go unobserved, without an obituary or even a small gathering of friends. At my hands she will die, and I at hers. We will, together, kill the last illusion. Afterwards, we will have time to talk quietly in an alcove somewhere; until that time, I sit patiently, alone, silent, watching the cars drive by down below. And then I come back to the present, out of the dreams I have already lost. I am not, however, waiting for anything. It is enough to note her arrival, sometime, somewhere – and even if she never comes I have the hope, which is worth far more than I might suspect. In the end I will settle in somewhere, but that is not what is in question at the moment.

I will kill her with a knife, a gun, a garrote, my hands even if that is necessary. She will laugh, of course, and send me to my fate with only a wave of her hands. She holds the cards, then scatters them across the water in a gesture of defiance. That is the nature of the question, that falls to dust then vanishes without a trace. No question, then, nor answer. Instead a motion of lips brushing across mine, hands sending currents down my spine, to the foundation if necessary. I will miss her when she leaves, but will have to go on as if nothing were amiss. It is always this way, however. I grow used to it, then do not notice any longer the absences. She leaps across flower covered meadows in perfect imitation of a deer in spring; looking behind her she beckons me to follow but my feet are like lead. She is at once the very best part of each and every woman I have known and would like to have known. Because of this she carries a small piece of every name as well, and so must go unnamed. There is nothing convenient about the arrangement, however. When she walks into the room I look away, embarrassed, or perhaps afraid her eyes will not light into mine. But she is not to appear in the near future, so my fears are unfounded. Still I have time to worry, and to create false futures with which to flagellate myself.

There is time, however, to give a brief description of myself, if only to form the other half so necessary for her involvement in the story. She is the story, and rests before going on. I put my head, which is perhaps as large as hers, on my hands, which have begun to show signs of age, in the form of small wrinkles, which grow more exaggerated when exposed to sunlight. My eyes are sunken, from too many nights spent in thought, sleepless nights arguing with the heroes of the past, long dead except in the motion of my eyelids. I have carried these soldiers for a time, but find the time has come to carry only myself. They will cheer, and are perhaps already doing so. I am not large, and so form (at least in my opinion) a perfect counterpart to her. She, of course, is smaller, but not by too much, and hides herself under clothes that hang loosely on her body. The disguise may be perfect, for all I know. I do the same, for the sake of convenience, but am not ashamed when the time comes to strip. I have grown used to my body, and no longer care to find its faults, which are many, I am sure. In the morning I wonder if she takes tea or coffee, and a thousand different things as well.

But I leave her, free as when I first saw her, hair (long, dark, wavy) blowing in the wind. It is the dream that wraps itself around me, taking me into its hands, a succubus that drains my essences one by one until there is nothing left but vacuum. And in the vacuum, hidden as it is by all that has gone before, is the holy ghost, breathing painstakingly, struggling for life. He (or she – better perhaps, it) offers promises that will evaporate in the first light of day. His words will go before him, sweeping a path that none will ever walk. Filled with corruption and avarice he will make insincere offerings then count past the last known number. Dividing by larger and larger amounts he will arrive, finally, at his destination, but will of course not know it. His will has failed him this time around, predictably. What is not known could after all fill the smallest thimble with echoing sighs. I am sad to see him go on like this, however, but do not know what to say, or do. His problems are of his own making, his rasping breaths lead steadily away, into other lands, where there is no sound at all.

She laughs when I tell her about his problems, knowing I have grown too confused, mistaking the words for life itself. My altitude changes irregularly, as do my latitudes and longitudes. In my hands are the instruments needed to calibrate my progress, but they melt with every turning, raising, and lowering. Without these tools I do not know what to do, although she tells me to trust in the voices that guide her to her destiny. I can speak the word fate but to live it is another matter – that, I know, is one of an infinite number of final surrenders. To grow used to such collapse is the key, however. A life filled with surrender can never be defeated, nor can it ever emerge victorious from the battles that surround it daily. She knows this, and guides my arms and legs with never ending patience. She is, in short, my friend.

And in surrendering I win as well, odd as that might sound. In my victory I have no reason to gloat; instead unbidden tears well in the corners of my eyes – as much for myself as for the dead that surround me, I suspect. The fight – the fight, that is another matter, of course. To stop fighting means to enter into the real battle: last always it calls us to arms when the threat of peace looms too large. All art calls to one face at least of god, and all art is the struggle to create, to defeat (perhaps only oneself, but that is sometimes more than enough). My gods paint and sing, build better cannons and jet fighters, longer bridges and higher buildings, and of course faster cars and smoother roads; my gods, that is, live and breath the same air as I do. When the air grows thick, so do their breaths; when the waters are polluted their blood courses spasmodically as well. Their eyes see no more, nor do they see any less, than do mine. Their expressions of contempt and resignation echo the beatings of my heart. In the evening they watch, fascinated, the gyrations of lithe bodies that fill the television screen. Desire, as a commodity, is fine with them – they are the new pantheon that mimics and commands the every move of an overgrown man-child. If more than one god is called for, that is what we will receive. There are after all no numbers within the infinite – whether one or a million makes no difference when there is nothing whatsoever but the initial breath. To give a name is not to alter the formless, nor is it to carve out a realm suited perfectly to our needs. My wish, then, is to find her in my bed; my god, the moans that we make together; my heaven, the sweat that soaks the bed to the floor. I have the right, after all, to call the heavens, by whatever face necessary. I am not greedy, nor am I disrespectful. There is no hypocrisy (at least as far as I can see) in my words. The church, of course, can make no such claim.

My gods, then, are alive, pulsing with life in fact, contorting themselves when contortions are called for, dying when death is the appropriate action. They are impermanent, come and go as they please, and reject every worshipful word sent their way. They are great individuals, with egos appropriate to gods, to the creators of all that has been, is, and will be. Their language is a smooth flow of words without meaning, their conversations are silent. They are not soft, although when the time is right their bodies are filled with melted butter. I call them one by one, and then turn to her eyes, to see her nod approvingly. They do not care what we do, since they at least understand that we are one and the same. Their motions are deceptive, however, their eyes blind, their voices empty. They are not mine, nor are they of this world. Their place is in the past, in the future – anywhere, in short, but here.

She speaks to them one at a time, in her bedroom more often than not. Although I try to listen at the door I do not hear more than a murmur of words. But even then I hear her say things that amaze me. But she is, or has become, too perfect. Perhaps there is some flaw to be found in her daily communes with the gods. She calls them by their first names, dividing the pantheon into male and female parts, as is her wont. They, being above such concerns, say nothing. At times their silence grows so great that I can no longer be sure they are listening to her anymore. Their steps, of course, still echo through the heavens, so their presence cannot be doubted. Her voice goes on, lingering over syllables, slipping across rough patches without strain. I know she is reciting poetry to them, for she once read that such was their preference. If I walk into her room she will stop, slightly embarrassed, then pretend she was only reading a book, which she keeps by the side of her bed for precisely such a purpose.

In a small journal, also kept by the side of her bed, she notes the names she has assigned the gods this week, if they are different than last week's. Her hand writing, while not overly neat, is not sloppy either. Experts tell me that from this observation I can deduce much about her personality – I, however, prefer to watch her move and speak without the benefit of such ideas. One morning perhaps I will be filled with an overwhelming urge to build such a box for her, then to try to push her in, despite her protests. I give her tea and biscuits, thinking her British (remember, I know so little about her after all), then follow with some coffee, just to be on the safe side. Her expression does not change, nor can it. Her face, today, is a porcelain cast, unchanging, unknowing. In those eyes the heavens light briefly then move about, in search of the waters that will run all too soon out of the corner of each eye. She says nothing to my offers, perhaps because if she were to speak her face would crack, slowly at first, then into a thousand pieces.

It is because I need a companion that I begin to form her flesh (in my image alone?) but then go on, content not to know the nature of her origins. Tomorrow, perhaps, we can love each other so perfectly that our forms will be as one. That I will wait for, holding my breath at times, then breathing in and out deeply, like the books say to do. Always, of course tomorrow. And the next day, in an infinite series, ending in zero. That is how things will wind down, more and more slow they will go, less and less time between the present and the future. Her conversation will be an important part in this story, for my words alone are half. I do not accept the story of true equality, finding flocks and herds of halves do not make up wholes in any significant sense. Without her I am half, of course, and she the same. That is why today she dresses in brittle clothes, and wears makeup of fine china. She is frozen and I run without borders. That too is one of her faces. I know that if I list each feature in its turn the collection of descriptions will at some point take a more concrete form, then move on its own accord. It is that moment, of course, that I wait for.

She has, I believe, always been somewhere near my side, although she will never admit it, even in the heat of an argument. Our life together has not been perfect, and it is in this imperfection that our happiness lies. I do not know why, however, making her has assumed such importance at this particular moment. It is not as if there have not been others, far more dramatic, or at least eventful. Perhaps I truly have no choice in the matter, following as it were (as it is, that is) my destiny, or fate, if you prefer, which guides me with an iron hand, straight to the bed of its daughter, into which I am told to jump without further ado. And jump I would, only I see no bed, nor is there a daughter waiting there for me. There is, for my eyes, only a wisp of torn lace, the outline left by the dropped leaf of a rose, a pause I know will not be filled. I will caress her when the time comes, before then I will make lists and break them in two over my knee, until I am completely satisfied with her form, and with the conversations which show me, piece by piece, her nature, roaming as it is within the borders I have erected in her honor.

But she erects herself in the meantime, impatiently, for she cannot stand waiting for me to discover her. In her movements she grows steadily more firm, more convinced, as it were, of her substance. Her hands are the hands that grow the attributes from which she is carved, like ivory or marble. Her smile grows as well, like a tree, a plant, a day in spring when all seems to explode out of its shell. I can understand, then, her impatience.

It is time, I see, to bring her to life. But she, of course, has already stepped away from my hands, holding a mirror up to my face in order, I suppose, that I might see what she has made. Immersed as I have been in my story, I have not seen that she was deeply wrapped up in the task of making me as well. The only question that should have ever been asked, in fact, through all these words, page after page, is who would wake first. And this, having no answer, is perhaps the most perfect of all questions.

She stands at the side of the road, watching me carefully, unsure, I suppose, of what to do next. Her smile is fresh, her eyes too. Beyond this I do not, cannot, go. There are, of course, others with her, but their outlines are vague, ill defined. She beckons to them now and again, as if unsure of herself. They do enough, apparently, to give her the substance she needs. And in fact her form grows slightly more substantial as I watch. The wavering settles, the drifts gather, the shivers cease. I am happy for her, but not for myself. Soon she will go with the others, as always. They will build walls and towns and castles, homes that will send her to her dying day. Perhaps, however, there is some other way, which I have simply not had the sense to think through yet. That way will grow roses but without gardens, and give us oceans to call our own. The way of the world, of the decay surrounding us, is the way of nature. This nature, however, is dark and cold, and unwelcoming. It leans over the streets in thousand foot high constructions, and burrows through the sewers towards the sea. Soon the two will meet, sending telegrams of victory to each other, then announcing, in a somewhat surprising development, the birth of their first child.

I have to laugh a little when people talk about getting back to nature, since there is nothing but nature around us, distorted, twisted, carved and channeled, but nature, nevertheless. She of course never talks like this, although I know she would like to, if given the opportunity. Her words are icing, I suspect, and cover something else, about which I am afraid to speak. When she grows, as I know she will, her seams will split, of course. That will be followed by other developments, whose nature will grow apparent only later. Or perhaps this has already happened, and I, I sit back, trying to make some sense of the events, not seeing that events have passed me by. Her face is without border, beyond the grasp of my ideas it undulates like a jellyfish under way through ocean currents. Her words are distant, jumbled, without apparent reason. It is at that moment I realize that her words have grown too, beyond my grasp, beyond the light of my thoughts. She sees all, bringing it to bear in the left side of her chest, in a cavity expressly created for such a purpose. She, I suppose, has gotten back to nature.

Which means, I realize, that it is I who have drifted away; that it is my words that no longer manage to cohere into a whole of any significant meaning. She carves the mountains, the riverbeds, the cities and farms and forests. In her hands the sickle falls slowly over the fields, the trees, the very atoms into which we put so much hope. It is the magic, however, that I miss. Her size may be grand, but there is no light in her eyes to match mine. There is, in short, an error in our construction. My ideas revolve around endlessly, looking for escapes, but finding only neurotics and worse. Like giant balloons we cross wires, guidelines and the like, then, free, float above the landscape in search of.... and that, of course, is the question, only we forget to ask. I watch her form, growing ever larger, recede into the horizon. Her last words to me sound and echo through the air, against what I can only begin to imagine. It is, she said, the way of the sea, a way without ending or horizon. That, I suppose, is a good definition, at least as good as any other. My way is small, however. I watch my hands shrink down, smaller and smaller they grow, until they can hold only the orbit around a proton. Without cease the orbit grows, or so at least it seems, until I am buried in an endless dark space, with only the light of a far off sun to guide me. The light grows and grows until I am blinded, and sink into the heart, the very center, that is, of the sun, which bursts into at least one thousand universes, out of which I can choose at random, only there is no random choice. So I do not choose, but follow a path made moment by moment, creating as it were the illusion of choice. I am illuded, then, and choose to my heart's content.

What remains, however, is a dark empty sensation. It is her absence, the space that she was to have filled. And it is out of this loss that I build the first of many new gods. If I listen very carefully, I can hear the echo of her voice, shuffling about the universes I have so carefully selected as mine. Perhaps she is laughing, telling a joke to one of her colleagues, who nods politely, as if he or she had never heard it before. I look back, wistfully, thinking of the life we could of had, but a life that was of course an illusion from beginning to end. For at every moment she had been growing and I shrinking. It was only a coincidence that allowed us to find then fit each other briefly. Out of her hands I was woven, and out of mine she was carved, but the weaving and carving itself was nothing more than the motion of the tides, of the universe in its most primal part. The weaving, that is, carved, and the carving wove, hand in hand, hand over hand, until there was only a sigh waking in the first light of day.

And it is this, of course, that I mourn, and for which I build temples of marble and granite. All for the memory of one look, one moment, unique and indivisible, out of which all that would ever be and had ever been rolled like a tank across enemy lines. And afterwards, the world was never to be the same. The breath of gas colored our lungs green – we were assured the change was for the better by those who were in a position to say something on the matter. Her eyes were frost: a combination of fire water air and earth. Held in check as it were the emotions and dreams created an illusion of peace, but were in reality held, each in its place, by strong arms, and laws which guaranteed longevity and survival. This at least I remembered, or thought I did anyway.

The days grew shorter, until there were only a few hours in each, through which I tried to sleep. I did not want to think of what I had lost, or of anything else for that matter. The only question became to lose all, to enter into a bliss of nothingness, in which a sigh would carry exactly the same weight as the blast of a nuclear bomb. And perhaps this one dream I could manage, if only I could keep my hands from shrinking further. The memories could hold only so long, since the matter of my mind was entering consecutively smaller stages of development. Perhaps there was a point in which there could be nothing carried from the past in any form – a point in which the past itself ceased to exist, in an absolute and final manner. Her eyes would then finally vanish, and leave me to the infinitesimal world I could call my own if I so chose. But I would never make such a choice, of course, for I was bound in her arms as firmly as if by chains of the strongest iron. The phantom left by her was not a memory at all, but an inherent part of my body, creating and recreating itself with every split of DNA. Which was to say that she had entered into the very matter from which I reproduced myself daily, and so could of course never be exorcised, no matter the cost or effort.

Slowly the memory thus forged pulled me back, through the ages, the dawns, the quiet periods following the birth and death of a thousand suns, until I saw her form in the distance, looming large like a mountain through a thin fog, a warrior goddess brandishing crudely cast iron implements. I would never stop loving her, I knew at first glance. The moment her hands touched mine, and mine her skin, electric arcs would once again fuse our hands together, our breath as well, until there was only the first call left to sound. That time, of course, was in the future still, if only by a matter of moments. I did not want the rest, the dreams and shadows that pursued me, haunting me in the nights, and taking more concrete form in the day. We smiled at each other, knowing the truth through which we tried to build lies was nothing either, but, small as it was, that it was still enough. With that we rested, having born the birth of the world not once or twice, but a thousand times at least (for she had done the same, growing larger until she exploded throughout the last frontiers of our universe, entering the next through the core of matter itself, as a part of the subatomic flux whose nature we were so keen to describe). Of course the truth was a dream, but our dreams were only another voice to use at night, speaking of things we preferred to keep silent otherwise.

And the memories fade; crossed and unreal I can no longer see the falling worlds, the choice between universes – all that remains is her stare, hard and cold, laughing between the moments. She is still unreal, however, needing small doses of clay to fill out her empty spaces. I suppose I strike her in the same way, although this I will never know. Our size is constant, our expansions and contractions having been reduced to a steady swell, like the motion of water in the middle of the ocean. I can climb with her, and she can fall with me. That is the nature of our agreement. To leave matters in any other hands than our own strikes us both as a noteworthily bad idea. There has perhaps been one small change: the romance has dwindled into a steady state of acceptance. But not one word please about sacrifice or compromise. Such is not the case at all, in any way or shape. The nature of the current that flows is the nature of two elements finding greater permanence in each other's arms. The sensation is not possible to imagine, nor can it be given a name. As such it is very much like the nature of god – perhaps it is this very nature, or at least one face of it. Or perhaps not. In any case, I am satisfied with the arrangement, and do not find myself buried under an overwhelming urge to kill it by giving it a name.

I am once again inside of her, only this time I know what is happening. That much at least I have learned. Her flesh is the flesh of combat, of battles lost and won through the ages, until the urge is a part of her. She is one of many lost generations, forced to make a new world for herself if she wants to survive. Her father has died only recently, leaving a hole she can easily fill if she so chooses. And he leaves behind a patrimony of self construction as well, which is a fitting gift for a father to give his daughter. I am glad to have known him, if only slightly. I notice her past is filling out slowly, like a hot air balloon. I prefer this to her recent growth, which had left me as nothing behind. She is of course real, her flesh is made up of exactly the right proportions of fat and muscle, and is capable of feeling far more than is necessary for reproduction. She is graced with an excess, an opulence that offers itself directly to worship, and which I do not hesitate to call by one of a thousand different names (although I do not of course use all of them, for that is said to result in the end of all that ever has been – but perhaps that would not be such a bad thing, after all, although there is a small notion of responsibility to take into account)

Today her breasts are large, swollen with life although she is pregnant with nothing more than opportunity. Her stomach as well carries more than necessary, as do her insides, towards which I tunnel with effortless grace. All places become for us a bed upon which we build our love, and every moment is the right moment. I vomit out my past in small pieces first, then larger and larger, until she has to duck to avoid the shrapnel that flies around me in insistent flurries. Her hair, of course, is a darkened blond, woven out of soiled gold I tell her, happy to find such fault. And her eyes are blue, reflecting the sun eerily, and the skies over which she flew only shortly before. Burned she falls then rises again, using the smoke that she emits to fuel her progress. She is, that is, a complete contradiction. Which is only another way to call her by her true name. She both is and is not, and revels in the nausea this dual nature causes some, me especially. But I am happy to spew out my past in this manner, and so we share a joy which is unique to us, or so at least we say, knowing that there is no sensation that is unique, only more or less common. I am happy to have the uncommon, common as that may be, in any case.

Tomorrow I suppose I will look up into a pair of green eyes, and caress small but fluid breasts. That is to me no matter, for it is her ever changing nature that makes her most attractive to me. The day she does nothing new is the day I leave her behind – saddened of course, but knowing there can be no solution. It is only the fire that matters to me, the burning sensation that fills each and every one of my fingers with shocks whose nature could best be termed unearthly.

She, then, is not of this world. And that is all the better, for to be of this world is to be nothing other than what we have been told to be. Her thoughts are confused, erratic, and it is for this I love her, for her thoughts are mine, and mine hers. Because we have joined in such a complete manner we can no longer call anything our own. We have, in other words, entered into a pure communism, in which all is shared, from each according to their abilities, to each according their needs. Or perhaps I could call it a perfect business relationship, where each partner is free to do exactly as they please, but where what each does is exactly what the partnership needs at that particular moment. But, no matter how I name or describe it, the water that lights her eyes runs smoothly, without interruption or question. I dig the channel for her, and she slices my path for me, wielding her machete with characteristic vigor and enthusiasm.

To quiet the neighbors I think we will marry, even though this idea is considered slightly outmoded today, even inefficient from the standpoint of optimal productive capacities. Perhaps we will do it only to flaunt convention, then, or to renew convention – or perhaps simply because we find it the right thing to do. She will not wear white, for obvious reasons, and I not black, for reasons more obscure. The dress will be informal, comfortable in fact. The invitations will go out, but all who receive one will be too busy on that particular day, leaving the event as a testimonial to ourselves alone – which is exactly how I want it. We will do much in time to make the world better, if only for ourselves, but will in the end find our efforts rewarded in unexpected ways. But these events are all to come, and need no further reference in the present.

Tomorrow, I promise, I will hold her hands in mine and whisper promises of faithfulness and love. This will quiet her, making for a very silent town. I alone will shout and scream like a small child denied a favorite toy – the people around me will watch, curiously, then go on about their business as if nothing were happening. Perhaps we will take a few glasses of wine to celebrate, and then again we might just go for a walk under the stars. The voices will quiet then, their shouts turning to whispers, then rustles that fade in the night. That much at least I know, or think I know. My head is heavy, weighing down on my neck like a big rock. Such should not be the sensations of a man soon to wed. And, indeed, they were not, for the wedding, like all that had gone before, was to be called off by an irate group of parents. Not mine, of course – they were resting comfortably in their homes, unconcerned. Which was a credit to them, I think.

There is no escaping it then: I must create a new woman, out of the old, ribs and all. She will smile when she wants, and demand her rightful place. Her hands will mold me like soft clay, once again giving the lie to the idea that I have anything to do with her creation. We will be born in the same minute, and will pass with the same sigh. When the wind blows our ashes away, the mourners will exchange significant looks, as if to say they had known all along that such was to be the outcome of our affair. I will look the other way, as I always do at such times. And she will smile (like all others before her have done). In this at least we are consistent.

I will place my hands on her eyes, as if to signal the beginning of a game of hide and seek. She will borrow time, sending it out to be cleaned, and pressed. Before giving it back to me she will complain bitterly that I do nothing to help, not seeing the care I carefully disguise in my own eyes. We will then walk separately to our room, and disrobe without a word. Falling into bed with tired sighs we will once again dream that we have our dreams next to us. Tomorrow will be another day, however. Then the future will no longer look bright, being as it were already arrived. Time has dissolved into bright green gelatine moldings, disguising in its breasts slices of candied mandarins. Although I wince at the sight I must go on with the dinner as if nothing were amiss. The other guests look to the left, then the right, hoping to catch one of our fabled fights in the making, but neither she nor I care to provide the necessary spark.

Much later, when the guests have all gone home, we lie in bed, watching the stars go by. There has been some mention of worlds turning past galaxies but we let these words slide, not being sure what to make of them. I need only one more smile, to add to the last, I say, nodding off to sleep in the meantime. My night is filled with bodies being sliced into small pieces by unlikely cutting instruments. I realize later that I will have to convert my dreams into currency if I am ever to get anywhere in life. I do not tell her too much, not wanting to dilute my assets needlessly. She, to tell the truth, is wealthy (I made sure of that when I made her), but I will never see even one iota of her inheritance, nor do I want to.

Filled with such words our nights evolve into endless free-for-alls, pillows showering feathers around the room, curses waking the few neighbors who remain around us. Then the morning comes, and we make up. I suppose I can call myself happy with the arrangements, fluid as they are, but I choose not to. That, at last, is the truth, out of which nothing more can ever fly. My names fluctuate as well, bearing first one offer, then that promise, then yet another unopened set of negotiations.

We put our hands to each other's faces, then look back at the reflection that smiles out at us in the night air. The rain has stopped, for the time being, although the streets are of course still wet.