eighteen seconds before sunrise

"i'm afraid that hiding beneath our skin are such tiny, uncontrollable compulsions."

"bah, it's only your imagination. you are a blackguard and a fool, you know," the other said, "have a drink."

two grimy, older men with longish beards, jeans rolled up mid-calf, one with headphones, spoke amiably on the street corner as the sun restlessly, clumsily, especially died in dilapidated shapes of marigold colors, leaving behind a mellow lacuna of evening - velvety.

bubbles floated from above in a gratifying interplay with the sky, in other words, someone was blowing bubbles, as i walked toward ryles jazz club, entered, and ascended the stairs.

violet was in the kitchen, diddling carrots, preparing a meal.

"how was the match?" she asked, as i dropped my tennis bag in the corner.

"it was fine." i said. "i should probably quit smoking, though."

"yeah, probably."

"what can i do?"

"can you handle the carrots?"

"sure."

we prepared dinner, some sort of epicurean fancy, i don't remember what. she placed the dishes on the pecan-green table, and god how she resembled -

we sat down, began eating, and in the next room i could see her piano and schiele's painting of his wife in an enticing pose. i turned to violet, her profile partially tinted by the sunset, and knew i'd never be able to feel the love and pain within her walls.

what do you talk about at night?

let's do something sinful.

i knew her thoughts were straying somewhere else. we ate peacefully and talked about art.

"that schiele. it's a style for me, a feeling, a tingle in the spine." she said.

"definitely. and it makes us glance back at our past, reflects a future image we'd like to attain and inspires a beauty in the world we feel within ourselves."

"i just want to break plates, smoke cigarettes in bed, and dive into the pillows to keep the light away for a little while."

what do you talk about at night?

let's do something sinful.

we laid in bed. it felt like being with an intimate stranger from some ancient island. we smoked in bed, two tongues crossed and trailed across the room in a haze.

"you should come to vermont with me this weekend."

"i can't... i should stay with oscar."

"i understand."

"there's really nothing i can do, though. i don't know. i'm tired..."

"i'm leaving in the morning. stay with him or get away for a couple days. you'll be back before he goes in... it's up to you."

you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style

the whole room, all of downstairs, was ablaze with the whir, swoosh, whir of the crowd, and the lights, blue, black, white reflected wild in the bulbous eyes of the dragonfly as it beat its wings, hovering above the stage, deeper, deeper into the feeble smiles of the 2 a.m. hour. the wings beat a light wind, broken by a high-pitched laugh, as everyone hung their heads, too goddamn lost to let themselves travel. some of the lucky let themselves plunge, the lucky and the damned, and their hearts thundered and swelled, staring into the eyes of the dragonfly, reflected in acoustic mirages.

there was a weak fire in the ironingroom. the servants were circled and solemn, face to face. the dog let out a howl. the entrance of the castle was cast in swarthy shadows. it was a long time ago. and beyond the servants quarters, in seven oddly toned rooms of the abby, the masquerade ball commenced. in the seventh room, black, with the tall, narrow windows danced the prince. and down below, a strange figure, solemn and pale, wandered through the locked abby. in the midst of the revelry, the stranger entered each room, until he found the last, black room. when the prince confronted the stranger, he fell brilliantly to his death.

the stage was being cleared. oscar and i had spoken briefly earlier, but he was now loud and drunk. i was with a friend, sue, the girl with the anne sexton poem tattooed between her breasts and neck, wrapping around her body. violet and oscar had both known her, though not very well. i told sue that we should go talk with violet.

"you remember sue."

"of course. how are you?"

violet was on stage, tinkering with her keyboard.

"what are you up to?" i asked.

"i'm going to meet oscar after i clean up, and we're going to head to keith's." you guys should come."

"ah, love to, but it's late and i'm tired. talk tomorrow."

she cast a look like a soft yellow ray reflecting imaginary sapphire against the windshield of a somewhat metallic car.

"bye."

i knew that oscar was scheduled for surgery, and she wanted to spend time with him, and i also knew that i smelled a velvety perfume emanating from a milky skin. and so we walked out, into an illuminated island of spring clouds and doomed deciduous trees, carving the landscape into a lazy elysium, where i looked forward to a small, chilly room.