|
|
|
|
|
| For several hours I imagined her, the exgirlfriend, as I always imagine her, only in torso. And with a white hand like French soap waving him goodbye. Then a panorama of sunlit suburbia. He glides away, as if swept by the air motioned toward him by her hand. He was the kind of man who glode. In the adjacent section a woman is wheeling a wheelbarrow up and down the garden. It is full of photographs of the exgirlfriend's face which from afar look like the most exotic leaves imaginable. I cannot get closer to see. I hear a quiet voice tell me you love me, that you love and it smells of whisky. | ||||
|
||||