here i am, she says, i�m just sitting here waitin� now. it�s a matter of time and space. i can�t realize it, you don�t get it. try as i may, you don�t get it.
where is my perfect little self somewhere in the galaxy, swirlin� and a-twirlin�, casting off faint glimmers of itself that do no justice, like dobs of paint on a wheel. that�s me, that�s just too easy.
outside of her shop, he paces back and forth, counting the tiny rollie polies heading south. he has a red kool-aid and vodka mustache. he�s got a pair of old mismatched converse on his feet. he�s running out of time and space.
it won�t be long now, she says. he�ll walk past me in a grocery outlet. he�ll have canned peaches. he won�t look up, he won�t wonder, he won�t notice. he won�t perceive anything other than a shopping cart comin� his way.
that�s when i�ll get him. |
