Evening, and: While Reading Eva Hoffman's

Evening

A driver holds openthe limo door as a diplomatsteps in. Closerto the center a man leans over the edge of an upperbalcony and shakes out his pinkduvet. What is he hoping

will drift loose: a single lost eyelash,the memory of her body, or does he onlywish to capture, as in a net, the earlyevening air? Perhaps she waitsinside. The diplomatmust wait much longer

to find his own sheets. The driverwaits outside the embassy, and looksthrough the windows on the street:some men watch porn movies ontheir large screens; some men makelove (real-time) on their small beds. It is the

fractions of momentsthat stay with us: how he touchesher right eyebrow, her leftcollarbone; how he turnsthe dial on his car radio searchingfor the latest love song.

While Reading Eva Hoffman's

Illuminations

My neighbor stands on top of her concrete garden ballwearing a lilac scarf while talking on her phone. Behindher in the light of dusk is a wall covered in climbingred flowers. Isabel's brother wore a lilac scarfthe day he overdosed and died. Next door the night

baker lit up in the large window rolls out loavesof muesli bread and when he turns his back his t-shirt says,"Cognizant, I bake." The following morning a family of twelvein three generations strings a tightrope between elm treesand take turns practicing walking the line. A fortyish woman

in sheer skirt and bare feet (heels kicked to the side) succeedsmost often, along with the youngest boy. A father walksto the door of the cafe and returns with a tray of sandwicheswhich he carries over to the tightrope walkers. Latermy neighbor is again on top of her concrete ball listening

to messages from her ex-lover. The evening Isabelplayed the last chord of the Chopin scherzo in Spain,her hands still hovering in the air, a bomb shatteredthe concert hall lobby. Was this plannedby her ex-lover? No one was physically

harmed but it took her weeks before she could returnto the keys, and by then she heard music of a different form:the sound inside her head which she would try to writeout in musical scores. We each carry our own songin the lilac moments of the day. We break

bread and eat what strangers have carefullycreated for us late at night while they whistle a tunethey learned long, long ago or have just foundon the tips of their tonguesin the solitude when the bread begins to rise.