Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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“She’s right,” Jack said, pulling the ottoman cube closer to him. “And not just the colors, but the words. There’s humor!”

“And there’s irony, too,” I said, skimming some of the text. “And depth. And double meanings.”

“And cliff-hangers!” Georgia exclaimed, dropping to her knees next to Penelope and zeroing in on a leaflet of junk mail. “It’s actually gripping! Listen to the suspense in this line: ‘Who dry cleans better than us?’ They don’t answer the question! They just leave it hanging like that, torturing us. It’s a great hook and extremely thought-provoking.”

Lily just watched us.

Since the music had ceased a minute ago, its effect was now wearing off. Our interest in the junk mail was starting to fade, but not before we reiterated that this had not been a good test because the pile of junk mail was better than average.

Lily sat at her piano and played the same piece over again, which caused us to fight over who would get to keep the junk mail, even though it was mine. We ended up Xeroxing it on the machine in my living room closet, so that everyone could get a copy, and I kept the originals. When I mentioned that I might bind mine, not only did they not think it weird, they decided they might bind theirs as well. That is, until Lily stopped playing, and the pile gradually appeared for what it was: junk.

This was five months ago. Things progressed quickly after that. Lily’s career took off and she now gets highly paid by stores like Barnes & Noble, Tiffany, Bloomingdale’s, Crate & Barrel, and others, to compose music that will beautify their merchandise. Her music is played while customers shop, and soon these customers get an urge to buy more books, more toothpaste, more jewelry, or more of whatever Lily was assigned to enhance musically. Recently Barnes & Noble told her, off the record, that its sales had almost doubled since it started playing her book music.

The critics have been impressive in their ability to look past her music’s commercial use (one pundit even called it “crass usage”), appreciating its genius. The reviews have been glowing.

Lily wanted Strad to find out about her achievement on his own, without her having to brag about it. Considering how many articles have been written on her in the last few months, it was a reasonable hope. She assumed he would contact her as soon as he heard she had accomplished what he said should be the ultimate goal of music: to beautify the world.

And yet she heard nothing from him.

“He probably doesn’t read, the idiot,” Georgia said.

“I don’t know about that,” Lily replied. “As I’ve already told you, when I gave him one of your novels, he not only read it and loved it, he immediately bought your other four books and read and loved those too. It’s funny you’re so down on him. He’s a huge fan of yours. He said one of his greatest joys in life would be to meet you.”

“Well, then, it will be one of my greatest joys never to meet him,” she said simply, and smiled.

Eventually, Lily sent Strad an invitation to last night’s concert, thinking that if he didn’t know about her success yet, he would now. The beautiful printed invite included a bio, which described the particular musical powers she’d recently developed. (The invitation also reassured any nervous guests that none of her “influential” music would be played that evening, and it wasn’t.)

During our dinner after the concert, Lily told us, “I’m worried I didn’t exactly achieve what Strad was talking about. He spoke of music that beautifies the world, not music that beautifies consumer products.”

“Consumer products are part of the world,” was Georgia’s response.

Lily shook her head. “Strad probably doesn’t see it that way. He’s an idealist.”

“You’ve achieved so much more than what he was talking about. You’ve achieved actual magic.”

“Magic is not necessarily more important than poetry. I think he was talking about poetry.”

Penelope finally stepped in with, “Lily, you’ve achieved something extraordinary, that’s never been done before. If Strad hasn’t contacted you, it’s because he doesn’t know about it yet, not because he’s not impressed. He probably didn’t bother reading your bio in the invite, nor did he see any of the articles about your music.”

We all hoped Penelope was right and we were disappointed today when the arrival of this postcard proved her wrong. Lily’s not getting what she wants out of her inspired musical accomplishments, not a speck of the affection she craves. In his message, Strad doesn’t suggest they see each other. There is no: “Stop by the store and say hi one of these days. I’ll give you a good price on a flute. ”

“Are you all right, Barb?” Jack asks me.

I’m suddenly aware of the grim expression on my face. “He’s not worthy of you,” I tell Lily. “Do you think you can forget about him now?”

“No,” she replies. “Actually, I’m going to call him tomorrow and suggest we have coffee.”

Soft sounds of concern and disapproval escape us.

She explains, “If I’ve failed to create the kind of music he was talking about—and I guess I have, judging from his postcard—I want to know how I can do better.”

Doing better is not the issue. Looking better is. That’s what she doesn’t understand. At least that’s my bleak take. I would love to be wrong.

As we’re chatting, we’re oblivious to the waitress who is refilling Penelope’s water glass. Before the water reaches the top, the glass falls apart and the water spills all over the table.

“Oh! Shit! I’m sorry!” Penelope exclaims, as the water slides onto her lap.

“What on earth?” the waitress says, staring at the broken pieces of glass.

“The glass was broken and I reassembled it, stupidly. I’m sorry,” Penelope says, mopping up the water with her napkin.

“You reassembled it? Why?”

“To see if it could look intact.”

“It’s very dangerous,” the waitress says.

“I know. I’m so sorry, I forgot about it, I didn’t intend to leave it that way.”

We call it a night.

I walk home. Adam the doorman greets me with: “I hope your evening was as dreadful as you are.”

“Not quite.”

“Wait a minute,” he says, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his forehead. “I’m trying to imagine you with a personality.” Opening his eyes and shaking his head slowly in bewilderment, he says, “No luck. If I throw a stick, will you go away?”

I say goodnight and oblige.

Upstairs, I receive a call from my mom saying that she researched support groups for fat people and found Overeaters Anonymous, Food Addicts Anonymous, and Eating Disorders Anonymous.

“The problem is,” I tell her, “I don’t overeat, I’m not addicted to food, and I don’t have an eating disorder of any kind.”

“Listen, I’m not an idiot. I can see there’s a slight discrepancy. But I couldn’t find a group called Fat People’s Support Group, otherwise I’d say go to that. You’ve got to make do with what’s out there, sweetie.”

After we say good night and hang up, I brush my teeth, take off my fat, and carefully hang it up. I love the sensual protectiveness of my disguise. It’s like being a turtle or a snail: you can go out and wander around, yet still have the benefits of staying at home. No one bugs you.

I haven’t had sex in two years. I haven’t even gone on a date since Gabriel died and I donned my padding. It’s not that I’m not open to it, as evidenced by my bar ritual. If some man were open-minded enough not to shut me out the second he sees me in my ugly disguise, I’d consider going out with him. But I haven’t found such a man. So I spend a lot of time with my friends, who happen to all be single at the moment as well.

Peter Marrick

Friday, 13 October

Something has happened to me. I finally got around to looking in the laptop I found in the taxi three days ago, and I think my life may never again be the same. While searching inside the computer for its owner’s contact info, I stumbled upon a diary. I know I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. I only meant to glance at it quickly, to see what an average person concerns himself with. Turns out this journal was not written by an average person. It belongs to the novelist Georgia Latch. I haven’t read her books, but over the years I’ve thought I should. Their concepts intrigue me.

Her friends, though, intrigue me even more. I found it painful to read her descriptions of these artistic people. It reminded me once again that I’m not living my life how I want.

I must meet them. And there’s one I’m completely enthralled by: Barb. First of all, there’s the simple fact that I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as her. In the laptop there are photos of how she really looks—incredible—and how she makes herself look each day—unrecognizable. The mere fact that she wears this disguise is just . . . so eccentric, in a good way. I read in Georgia Latch’s diary about Barb’s routine in bars, how she takes off her disguise in the middle of conversations with men who show no interest in her. And then she walks away. It’s very spunky and sexy. The way Georgia writes about her, she sounds incredibly interesting.

I’ll return the laptop tomorrow. I’m tempted to make a copy of the photos of Barb—especially the gorgeous ones—but I know I shouldn’t. Still, they seem too beautiful to part with.

These people must never know I’m the one who found the laptop. First: they’d be angry I took so long to return it, especially poor Georgia. And secondly and more importantly: according to the journal, Barb will never date a man who has already seen her physical beauty.

I have to think of the best way to meet them. There is an obvious way, but as I’ve learned detrimentally late in life, the obvious path is not always the best one.

I’m glad I’m writing down my thoughts. Despite my many attempts to keep a journal, I’ve never been able to stick to one for long. Life gets in the way.

Chapter Five

Before meeting Strad for coffee, Lily makes very little extra effort with her appearance because there is not much that can be done. In fact, Lily has often noticed—and others have agreed with her—that in her case, the less done the better. Lipstick only emphasizes the ugliness of her lips. Mascara does the same disservice to her eyes, drawing attention to their unfortunate proximity to each other.

She feels that her best hope today with Strad is her talent, her music.

They meet at The Coffee Shop in Union Square (she tells me all about it later). They sit at a table in the back. They make small talk. He congratulates her again on her success without lingering on the topic.

So she decides to probe. She says to him, “I was very influenced by your words a while back when you said that music’s most noble ability is to beautify the world.”

He looks at her blankly, nodding vaguely. Then he talks about other things—movies he’s seen.

She persists. “The kind of music I’ve developed, does it approach in any way what you were talking about?”

“When?”

“When you said that beauty—I mean music’s—highest purpose is to beautify the world.”

“Hmm, I don’t remember that conversation.”

She blinks, confused. She doesn’t understand how he cannot remember. Or is he lying, out of discomfort? Yes, perhaps he remembers it perfectly and feels embarrassed about having said he’d marry any woman who could create that kind of music. Maybe he doesn’t want to be held to that statement.

In an anxious attempt to understand his feelings, she murmurs, “You said that one should strive to create music that alters people’s perception of reality, music that beautifies reality. I always kept that in mind.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I mean, I’m glad you were inspired by what I said.” He laughs and bites into his toast.

Lily stares at him, her heart sinking. She can tell with absolute certainty that he’s not pretending. He genuinely doesn’t remember. That’s how unimportant that conversation was to him. And here she’s been worrying that perhaps she hasn’t created exactly the kind of music he had in mind, that perhaps she hasn’t executed his vision in quite the right way to please his discriminating sensibility.

But maybe there’s still hope, she thinks. Just because he doesn’t remember uttering those words doesn’t mean they might not be true.

Gently, she says, “It’s funny that you don’t remember, because you seemed to feel pretty strongly about it at the time. You even said you’d fall in love with—and marry—any woman who could create that kind of music.”

“Did I say that? Is that why you composed your recent music?” he asks, and immediately bursts out laughing. He puts his hand on her wrist. “I’m kidding; I flatter myself. But seriously, I can’t believe I said that music’s highest purpose is to beautify the world, and much less that I would marry . . . whatever. I mean, I do believe you, that I said it, because I know what asinine things I’m capable of saying, but you should know me well enough by now not to listen to half the stuff I say.”

While she tries not to cry, something in her dies.

But she doesn’t want to give up just yet. She’s not even sure he actually heard her music. Perhaps he only read about it. Perhaps if he hears it, he’ll be won over. The entire last year of her life was built on the statement he made in the dark. She refuses to believe it was utterly meaningless and her efforts were pointless.

“Have you heard any of my music?” she asks softly.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure yet. I don’t go to stores much. Except the one I work in. Been so busy. But some friends of mine have heard it. Get this,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “One of them heard the piece that’s at the florist. He ended up shelling out $100 he hadn’t intended to spend. Oh, and I have a client—remember Mrs. Lockford?—well, she bought thirty tubes of lip balm at Walgreens.” He slaps the table and thrusts himself back in his chair, as though to say, “Case closed.”

Lily smiles, nodding sadly. She has indeed composed music for Astor Flowers and Nivea lip balm. She sometimes gets hired to compose music for entire stores and sometimes for specific products in stores.

Strad grins and sweeps the hair out of his face. “I love the little signs the stores are forced to put on their doors by law. What’s the wording again? It kills me.” He pauses and thinks. “‘Warning: Your tastes may be temporarily compromised by the ambiance in this store.’ And then, then, my favorite part is something like, ‘Be aware that you will be buying under the influence. You are advised to familiarize yourself with the return policy of this establishment prior to making any purchase.’ Ha!” He slaps the table again, startling the cutlery.

Lily smiles and nods. She’s always been charmed by Strad’s bursts of enthusiasm.

But she’s not going to let them distract her now. Focus and perseverance—one might even say fixation—have always been among her greatest strengths, as well as greatest sources of misery. She may be sweet and fragile, but she’s like a missile. When she has a mission, nothing can distract her, and as long as there’s a shred of hope, she doesn’t give up. Now her last shred of hope rests in playing him her music.

“Could you do me a big favor?” she says. “I’d really like to play something for you, to get your opinion on it. Do you have a few minutes? We could stop at the Building of Piano Rooms.”

Strad hesitates only a moment, and then says, “Sure. I have a few minutes.”

Lily pays the bill and they walk to the Building of Piano Rooms two blocks away.

They rent a small room. She feels a little uncomfortable, as though they’re booking a hotel room for sex, which of course she would much prefer.

The room contains nothing but a piano and two chairs. In her state of mind, it feels grim and seedy. The piano is giving off the vibe of a bed. She knows that’s just her perception, skewed by years of longing and frustration. In actuality, the space looks like a miniature classroom.

Strad sits on a white plastic chair near her.

She will play exquisitely. She wants him to be in awe. She’s not sure this is the most effective path to love, but she knows of no other way. If she can incite in him a very intense degree of admiration, perhaps the leap to adoration will be possible.

“What do you want me to beautify?” she asks.

He looks confused. “I thought there was a piece you wanted to play for me, to get my opinion.”

“Right.” She forgot. “But I need you to pick something randomly for me to beautify. I need to know how well I perform when I’m not prepared. That’s what I need your opinion on.”

“Okay. How about a pen or something?” he says, tapping his pockets. “Do you have one?”

She takes a ballpoint pen out of her purse and places it on the music stand. “Before we start, pay attention to your feelings toward the pen. Form an opinion of it. On a scale of zero to ten, how impressed are you with the pen right now?”

“I guess . . . zero. No offense, I hope.”

“No, of course not.”

She focuses on the pen.

This is more important to her than any concert she has ever played. She takes a deep breath and begins a piece for the pen.

After a minute, the pen starts looking poetic. As Lily keeps playing, the pen acquires depth. Gradually, it comes to represent the epitome of human thought, of human invention.

“Hey, that’s wild! It really does look better,” Strad says. “It’s like looking at a pen in a movie. A dramatic movie with beautiful sets and costumes. It’s like the pen suddenly has a story, or a history. How’d you do that?” He looks at Lily ardently, and before she can answer, he says, “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I need to get to a stationery store urgently.” He laughs. Putting on his coat, he adds, “That is so impressive, that you were able to develop this skill. You could have a lot of fun with it. You’re very talented.”

She gives him a sad smile and mumbles thanks.

“No, thank you for playing me your stuff. It was a blast!” he says. “I love it.”

Sure, he loves it. But he doesn’t love her.

Outside the Building of Piano Rooms, they say goodbye and each go their own way.

She walks in the cold, briskly at first. Sniffling, she tilts her head back and looks up, helping gravity sink the tears back into her lovely but unfortunately positioned eyes.

Lily heads back to Union Square. She walks through the park, slowly, looking down, gazing at the leaves in her path—golden, crispy leaves, now transformed into a rotting mush. She listens to the cars rolling through puddles. She feels lonely. She sees homeless people. She sits on a bench, holding onto its cold arm.

She remains sitting there for quite a while, and then calls me to meet her.

As I’m walking toward her, seeing her looking so lost in the surrounding grayness, I can’t help but think of Gabriel.

“I gave him my best performance,” she says.

I nod.

“Why did I think Strad would be any different?” she goes on. “It’s not as if I ever see any interest in the eyes of any man I ever meet. Ever.”

That’s when she tells me about her meeting with Strad, about how he was being his usual self: casual, detached, full of fun, without the slightest romantic or sexual interest in her. She says that even in her easily deluded state, in which his smallest gesture can seem loaded with imaginary meaning and promise, there was no room for hope. She now realizes it wouldn’t make any difference how extraordinary she became musically, magically, or otherwise—except visually.

Imagining her in that piano room with its undoubtedly merciless fluorescent lighting, and the letdown she must be feeling now, is tough. As she talks, she looks beaten. I wish I could protect her from ever sustaining another blow. I’m afraid that in life, every hit we take chips away at us. How many more hits can she take before she breaks completely?

“I think you should forget him,” I tell her.

“Oh, I’m not giving up quite yet.”

“You’re not?” I ask, with a weird mixture of alarm and relief.

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve thought of another project I’m going to start working on. And if I succeed, there’s a good chance Strad’s feelings for me will turn into love.”

MY MOM CALLS again. She asks if I’ve picked a meeting of fat people to go to yet.

“Yes,” I say.

“Which one?”

“Excess Weight Disorders Support Group.”

“That’s not one of the ones I told you about.”

“This one sounds better for my fat problem. I Googled to find a group whose very name doesn’t make me feel like a fraud.”

“When are you going?”

“Next Friday.”

“Why not today? Today’s a Friday.”

“I can’t. My friends are coming over.”

“Every day, every hour that you wear your disguise is an hour when you could be meeting a nice guy you could love spending the rest of your life with, but he won’t notice you because you’re hidden within that mountain of horror.”

“If he doesn’t notice me, he’s not a nice guy.”

I WASN’T LYING. My friends are in fact coming over for a Night of Creation.

Our Nights of Creation take place in the evenings, not at night, but Georgia’s publicist didn’t care about this inaccuracy when she dubbed them that and each of us a “Knight of Creation.” Her goal is fame for her authors at any cost.

These creative evenings of ours started four years ago when Georgia and I decided to throw a party as a way of meeting each other’s friends. Lily and Gabriel were among the friends I brought. Penelope and Jack were among the friends she brought. Georgia had met them a couple of years earlier when she interviewed them for a magazine article she was writing about Penelope’s kidnapping and her deliverance from the coffin by Jack, who was the cop who had rescued her.

The party Georgia and I threw was successful. People stayed late. But the six of us stayed the latest. We were engrossed in conversation. We talked about our lives and ambitions. We confided in each other. Most of us were in the creative fields and we lamented the loneliness of the artist’s life. Georgia said she found the isolation so unbearable that she often went to coffee shops to write. She liked the noise and bustle. It helped her concentrate. But she said it had gotten more difficult each year as she’d grown to dislike the feeling of anyone looking at her screen or reading over her shoulder. As she was telling us this, she suddenly had an idea: she suggested we try getting together to work on our separate arts in one another’s company.

It probably wouldn’t have worked for most people. For some reason, though, for us it did. Everyone being industrious was inspiring. We felt like family—which for some of us was very appealing, our real families leaving much to be desired. Georgia’s embarrassment over the name made the rest of us even more eager to embrace it facetiously. Over time, of course, it stuck.

Our Nights of Creation take place once or twice a week in my large living/dining room. Lily plays and perfects her compositions at a piano she keeps at my apartment for this purpose. A few feet away, at one end of my dining table, Penelope makes hideous little ceramic sculptures. At the other end of that same table, I design and construct my masks and costumes. Sitting between us, at the long side of the table, Georgia types her novel on her laptop (or at least she did, before she lost it). Gabriel would cook up delectable creations in my kitchen and bring them quietly to each of us while we toiled.

Jack doesn’t do anything creative. If he’s not lounging on the couch, reading psychology magazines, he’s lifting weights, enjoying himself watching us work. Some of the injuries he sustained while freeing Penelope from the coffin were permanent and serious enough to prevent him from ever returning to the police force. Even though he’s an invalid, he’s more athletic and stronger than any of us. He walks with a limp and can’t run, but there are plenty of things he can still do that we can’t, such as walk on his hands and do back handsprings (as long as he lands on his good leg). Financially, he’s okay, thanks to a huge anonymous gift of money he received after the rescue—perhaps from Penelope’s father, no one knows. He makes extra with a part-time job at a senior center, which leaves him with plenty of free time—much of which he spends with us.

Even though it was wonderful working to the scent of Gabriel’s culinary inventions and our evenings have never been the same since he died, we still enjoy working in one another’s company. We cherish that sense of camaraderie and companionship. Everyone’s art mixes with and affects everyone else’s.

Tonight, as usual, Lily, Georgia, Penelope, Jack, and I busy ourselves with various activities. I’m working on a pair of fantasy pants for a play. Georgia is mourning the loss of her novel by slowly flipping through the pages of her last novel. Penelope, hammer in hand, is finding new and delicate ways to break pots and balance their pieces back on one another in a deceptive appearance of wholeness. Jack is browsing through psychology magazines. And Lily is throbbing away at the piano, but today, instead of looking at her hands or at nothing in particular, her gaze is fixed on Jack, which I find peculiar. Jack notices it and starts making faces at her in an attempt to snap her out of her hypnotized stare.

“Don’t mind me. It’s my new project,” Lily tells him, interrupting neither her playing nor her gazing.

“Does your new project involve me, somehow?”

“Yeah, I’m just practicing on you. I’m trying to beautify you.”

He blinks quickly as he processes this information. “You don’t find me good-looking enough?”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to make you even better-looking. So get back to your reading and let me work.”

Lily continues her playing and staring.

After another half hour, Jack says, “It’s starting to hurt.”

Lily stops playing. “You’re kidding!”

“No.”

“What hurts?”

“My ego.”

“Oh.” She instantly resumes playing.

He adds, “To watch you trying to beautify me while wearing that frustrated expression makes me feel self-conscious and unattractive.”

I KNOW I’M acting like a mother hen, but I call Lily before going to bed to make sure she’s okay. I keep thinking of Gabriel.

“How are you holding up?” I ask.

After a pause, she says, “Okay.”

Her tone is odd. I don’t buy her reply. “How are you doing?” I ask, more slowly. “Really.”

She’s silent, and then says, “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“My hands . . . They’ve been strange today.”

“Strange? How?”

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“That’s okay.” I add, “No, I won’t.”

“Okay . . . After I saw you in the park this afternoon, I came home and I started playing the piano. As you know, I was really depressed. Well, I gave in to that feeling, I sank into it. And something scary happened.”

“What?”

“My hands started changing,” she says.

“They did?”

“Yes. They became gray and shiny. And they felt different. Sort of empty. Or hollow.”

Now I’m the one who’s silent. I finally say, “Gray and shiny?”

“Yeah . . . Kind of like silver.”

“Are you exaggerating?”

“Do I ever exaggerate?”

I think about it. “No.”

“I’m actually understating it,” she says. “Because then my hands became worse. They got shinier, until they were very reflective, like mirrors.” She is silent, as though waiting for me to react. But I don’t know what to say, so finally she asks, “You do believe me?”

“Yes,” I say, not technically lying. Sure, I believe that her hands were reflective—reflective of her mental state, a mental state which concerns me greatly. “And do you have any idea what triggered this?” I ask.

“I think my mood.”

“What was your mood, exactly?”

“I told you. Extremely sad.”

“Do you know what the reflectiveness was?”

“It felt like death. As though it was trying to take hold of me. And the worst part was, I was tempted to let it, because it was a welcome relief. But then I resisted it and it went away.”

THAT MAKES ME think of Gabriel, of course. I’m still thinking about him the next day when I check the mail and, to my surprise, I have another letter from him:

Dear Barb, Georgia, Lily, Penelope, and Jack,

One of you, in addition to Barb, was my very close friend. Our friendship was deeper than the rest of you suspected, even deeper than my friendship with you, Barb. This person knew about my love for you, Barb, and kept my secret, and for that, I’m grateful. During times when I was depressed over my unrequited love, this human being was my only source of comfort and knew that sometimes I wanted to end my life and that one day I might.

I will refer to this special friend as “KAY.” Eventually, I will tell you what this acronym stands for, but for now let me simply say that just because KAY is more popular as a girl’s name than a boy’s, do not assume KAY is female. Do not assume anything.

My closer level of friendship with KAY started one day when we were alone and confided in each other more deeply than we had with the rest of the group. We began meeting one on one without telling the group. We confessed more about our lives, our feelings, our opinions, our dreams.

We’d meet for walks. For coffees. It was strangely like having an affair, except that it was not sexual—just a very caring intimacy.

One day, KAY did something very bad and told me about it two weeks later and made the decision to do something very bad again, but not immediately; instead, KAY would do it exactly two years from then—which is now just a couple of weeks away.

You’ll have to prepare yourselves for the date (Friday, October 27), hopefully get through it, and then put it behind you, and try to forget.

In all honesty, you will never be able to forget. But with a little luck and my postmortem guidance, your group might be able to return to some semblance of what it is today. I know it’s asking a lot, but I hope you will see your way to forgiving KAY her/his folly.

Love,

Gabriel

I call Georgia.

“Hello?” she answers, sounding loud and excited and out of breath.

“I just got another letter from Gabriel.”

“Oh yeah? It’s so nice of him to stay in touch, isn’t it?”

I’m not in the mood. “Not funny.”

“Sorry. What does he say?”

I read her the letter.

She greets it with stunned silence, which jibes with my mood much better.

“How weird,” she finally says.

“Are you KAY?” I ask.

“Oh, I am more than okay.”