Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Scream in High Park, with only a drizzle of rain

Caucasian male, early 40s, with short, dark hair, wearing tan linen pants and long jacket. Standing at the mic, his voice is friendly, natural, pleasing.

The Girls Who Saw Everything, Sean Dixon (Coach House Books)

About page 174:

And then there was a crash behind them. Something had fallen between the fifth and the fourth floors, without any help from Du punching the walls. They knew before they looked: Runner had fallen through the floor again, beckoned by the weak spots and the underworld.

I pinch the foil edges of my take-out container, leaving a half-eaten sweet potato and avocado sandwich half eaten. A bag of cherry pits sits at my toes. An ant starts its long journey home, making off with a crumb of French stick. I've forgotten the ginger beer sweating inside my backpack, opting for wine and water. Long drapes of stage lights twinkle. The voice is clear, the audience's laughter easy. A much-needed breeze passes through without stopping. I arch my back slightly to widen my surface, my chest intercepting as much relief as possible. I relax into my slump and consider the backs of people's heads. It hits me. I've been too busy to notice. Sitting in this park in the dark being lullabyed, it's summer and I'm barefoot.

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