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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 82 This is insane, I thought, sitting in the dark. He's not coming to murder me. He's not even bringing the Cabernet Sauvignon. The soft motor of a car whirred along the highway. I held my breath. I'd leave it to chance. If Paul found the cottage in the dark I'd have to let him in. Open to me. If he couldn't find it - that's the breaks. Take the cash. Don't think about that. Think about something else. Mama. The old organ at home, and Mama playing Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, semplice e grazioso: Word of God, our flesh that fashioned with the fire of faith impassioned. . . I think of a round paperweight Mama kept, a glass ball filled with plastic snow. The low notes shook the snow, shook the little bones in my ears, vibrated my teeth. The snow settled all around the little house. The notes fade, the words remain. It's so hard not to remember, not to think, not to think - (a closeup of Paul's hands moving softly across damp skin. His mouth.) I felt an actual physical pain, an ache beyond laughing or crying, at the impossibility of this scene. Cannibals. ("Is it white wine, or red," said one cannibal to the other, "with Presbyterians?") I am no cannibal. Who am I, Mark? Remembered. Who-I-Am. Not this. |