Evening just about to even; women in song strewn about the linoleum. Dreams go like this but often fail, T_____ thinks to herself as notes from the skylight drift down featherly, notes from the chandelier drop like pancakes, notes from the signpost crash on the sofa. Sixteen summer squalls creep across the carpet. The light that dims is the lamp that lingers. Dresses she used to wear are wearing themselves now, no matter what we think and things thought they were through. Now she removes the bra-straps. Then princes start appearing, the good, the not, the other and yet another not so other but he is not even he or prince but wholly not. He hails from beyond our bane and something else besides. This is not my house, he says, This is not my tree. This is not my holiday, my pleasure nor my realm. I am thirsty, give me meat, give me forty years. T_____ is one to hold his him, she loves the way it smells. Catacombs would smell as sweet—the onions, the farm. Six years pass and still she sees it as the wax mould formed him. Six more years and nothing happens. Six more years and nothing happens. Then he tells her it wasn’t kismet it was just a fountain. Or maybe they were maybe them or maybe someone else. Then six more years and nothing happens then she bakes her sweetness, and all he promised oozes from the meat within her yeastfarm, where summer kept the broken bottles that reek of her elopement.
The Flip Through