But she must have been because she had that way of inducing delirium, by invoking the gods of love, as if playfully, as a kitten would, as they brace against the onslaught of unfamiliar signals.
She said hi, how are you this morning, in a voice magnetically resonant, while his wife was there. He wanted to test the waters for sure, in fact reality itself, as he came out of the pool. This Europe, he thought, was very faux, in fact this old town reminded him of Nashville in a very old movie with a young sounding title called ’ Sweet bird of youth’ with Geraldine Page he thought, no he liked her better in summer and smoke.
Long time ago, and then , she sort of lingered on, also testing reality, too long he thought, much too long. It really is a torture, then , but he was different, although she would not check by the pool, and she was used to his long evening swims.
Nashville in the closing days of the summer, the waitress was from Anaheim, and came here to come to study voice. Told her jokingly, kiddo, see you one of these days performing in the Grand Ol’ Opry.
And she was still there, and he was dying inside, every part of his body in a fight or flight mode, though she was probably small, at those important places, and the whole thing truly psychological.
Who cares who, what Reasonable man, calls it, call it as the come, out to prove something, the pride of inner resilience forming a comradeship much more elevating, a battle surmised, yet the war far from over, she and I both know it, far more satisfactory on the long run, but alas, always to the grave, a source of absolute total regret, a kind of death.
Then he came back, leaning out, she still, but long not looking, as if to diminish, that sadness she also knew, was not meant except as an antithesis.
A salve , a mystery, the reality never clarified, but the possibility of exasperating and formless ,into her
Death, of her progenitors, and his, somehow somewhere meeting on another level, then just mere identity. Yet he knew well, that it is this identity, that brought him into the death of absolute loss, she becoming a dying ember, whose spark, sexless and forlorn, in some god forsaken place, can make it up, like some student, who at one point missed an assignment.
She must have been a plant, mixing identities, somehow so different and enchanting, into a form, uniform of used up feelings, thoughts and actions, as if he was still in idahoe, not Tennessee.
She was more like a Mata Hari then an actor, she must see things positively, her energies bent on greater things, then a mere rush in her room, then with his wife, she could have known the probable outcome, and a regretful devastation which may follow.
She being small may have little consequence about it, she would have not cared about it, as he may have surprised her, but it is her form, her bearing, her southern accent, that was totally devastating. Her postures and affectations almost deprived him of his senses on account, but the transformation required nothing else, the energy becoming almost unbearable, as Celine and Kafka related of their versions of an America they never even, ever set foot in.
Then he as with his wife she saying what took you so long, and he found an excuse to go out to the he car, forgotten his glasses, and he thinking all was lost, she was gone, inside her room.
Was she planted by God himself there only to drive him mad, for now he shall never know, never have a clear picture of his, or her reality. Is he destroyed, or, still among the living?
Does an abstract infatuation, drawn intentionally grotesque, exert that much anguish, as he could sense in her demeanor ? But oh, well, then there is still time to work it out, out of his Narcissastic preoccupation, so that the goddess’ vanity shall not uniformly destroy him.