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Show Motherlunge a novel 228 34. The Snails And when Walter left, we noticed that it was also the end of summer again. After work, the sun lapsed quickly behind the buildings; the cold sprang into place. The streets around the world famous university were suddenly infused, one weekend, with a stream of unparkable minivaris. The sidewalks clogged with people, tables of book bags and day planners, discarded flyers for Chinese buffets. With Jack and Pavia and Xavier installed in the townhouse, and me at Eli's, the end of that summer felt important and serious, almost Soviet, as if we had completed one years-long plan and were about to embark on another. And so we were. Eli suddenly got a poorly paid but nevertheless real job, teaching photography (and juggling, guitar, and basic chess) at an alternative school called Sunny Dale. He was replacing a teacher who went to an ashram in New Jersey and had failed to come back. For my part, I went to the doctor. I wanted to leam why, in months of determined, frequent coitus-during which my daily basal temperatures were noted and recorded, my cervical mucus faithfully cat's cradled between thumb and forefinger-sex alone wasn't doing the trick. My doctor didn't know why. I was instead referred to a reproductive endocrinologist. This specialist looked at my hairy forearms and made a note in my chart. |
