Confused, of course, by the proximity to reality. I need some sort of puffy zone between me and the thing, some obvious tell. Maybe the dealer in their flammable hat rubs their wrist too many times, tugs at an ear, worries the ring hanging there, burnished or otherwise. Is there a surreal aqueous vibe riddling the wallpaper? A sea creature turning in the water ever so slowly? Something that I can see and maybe even touch.

The words don’t spill out so much as just appear. A car without headlamps careening thru the fog. Suddenly it’s upon you and you just recombinate like a blood bladder burst across the windshield.

She takes off her jacket and lays it carefully on the arm of the corduroy couch. An older couch, probably from the 70’s, that’s threadbare in spots and I’m self conscious of the stuff that I salvage from alleys. The kettle whose coil has probably gone, the tasseled shade that doesn’t match the lamp, the chipped plate with a version of a Gary Larson cartoon of cows in an automobile mocking humans in a pasture from. the car’s window as they drive past.

Her jacket is vintage and nearly worn thru at the elbows but it’s meant for dark rooms. It hangs on the arm of the couch like a soft promise.

Do you want anything to drink, I ask, digging in the freezer for ice.

Whatever you’re having, she says, flipping thru the record stack and finding the Hall and Oates.

I mix two drinks and splash a little extra on top.

It’s an early record from before their hey. The bass line fuzzy, the hooks a little soft. The crackle of dust when the needle hits.

We talk and talk and the sun begins to turn the dark to vapour.

When she leaves she does so without a sound and the sun is clear and fine. | image @dan_levenson