Michael Gillis


There was a rustle, and then Dahlia emerged from the door. I’m not going to describe her, because it would be like describing music, and even that would fail. It’s just air. Even if I played you the stir of air I felt then, on some old gramophone, even if I held up a stereoscope before your eyes, and showed you Dahlia stepping out into the golden autumn of an eighteenth-century Boston Commons---as rain fell outside, after your spirit had been moved to warmth by the electricity of finding a love of your own. Even then, in that Technicolor atmosphere, in that wash of good vibrations, it still wouldn’t be exactly right, would it? So, let’s say, Dahlia stepped through the door, bags under her eyes, and asked me:

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

I said, “a little bit.”

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