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14 Dinner Party We lounge amid the wreckage of this lovely evening, next to little pelts of scooped-out cantaloupe on blue Spanish plates, while Billie Holiday drifts through us like fog through trees. We have almost made it together inside loneliness, almost reached that perfect shadowy place where it doesn’t matter what we say, the others grasp it. We are chords in a new progression into stillness, a new rendition of “All of Me,” though none of us, if asked, could tell what taught us such love was possible. And then suddenly we’re back in history, as if a gust of gravity had swept in. Or the rubber band snapped. And we’re pulling on our coats, reaching for polite good-bye phrases like rain hats, remembering there’s happiness at home, too, and a Posturepedic mattress and a dog to walk. We look plain again, standing around like extras in a movie. What happened among us may be true and secret. It may be everything. But the night won’t talk, and none of us can find the word to loosen its tongue. It was fun, we say later. It was fun. —For Greg and Lysa ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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