THE SHALLOWS

The end of the record is when everything goes haywire. Instruments dropping off into nothing, a circuit dialog gradually muted in the expanse of 90 seconds, then returning to claim the colorblind.

Earlier, the turning of a spigot on the side of the house. On again, off again.

I didn’t care as I inched my way forward to the edge of the stage, my vision reduced to a telescopic slowness, the diffused light and silver streamers parting before me, my arm shaking from the strain of single lens reflex. I remember it well enough to know I was mostly there, like that unseasonably warm February night after two drinks at the Lakeside Bar, when Aileen Quinn hooked her slender arm into mine as we walked past Thompson Park and I knew that her patent leather go-go boots would not stay on her feet much longer. It was that kind of night. The kind that would make her grandmother frown.

BETRAYAL, 2AM

She set fire to her clothes and walked through the yard naked, the calloused soles of her feet grinding dust and gravel, ashes landing like fiery black butterflies in her hair. It was a dream: The wretched cowboy dreamed of Vishnu and knew his life was a lie. Once (he said) I was beautiful. You would have pushed your hair back from your face and felt your neck flush hot as my breath found your ear.

Something turns inside her; a bitter taste forms on the sides of her tongue; she moves to the kitchen sink and fills a glass halfway, drinks down the water, then fills it full and returns to the table. Where were we? You were saying?

GHOST PRINT

He finished the thing and turned it on its ear, only to find that it was a cat set afire, falling in a streak of violet from a window. That evening, she disappeared into his room and came back in a furor: You’re terrible. That poor cat. He swore it was not what he had intended to do, but it was too late. The girl with the springy blonde hair had doodled the faces of angry zapatistas all over his fiery masterpiece.