Atmospherics

Across the dial from Moscow to Cologne

This story starts with a girl.

Now, arguably, all stories start with a girl.

But especially this one.

A girl. In knee-high boots.

Standing in the corner at a party.

And talking about poetry. The lines of a haiku. The imagery of the Beats. The way a stanza stretches and curves to accommodate the listener. The fragrant sultry popping of P words and the lush liquid sound of the Ls.

Long after she's gone, the conversation lingers.

And you sit in bed at night, listening to the world. Wondering if she's listening to or if she's at another party. Enchanting the guests with her talk of poetry, her poetry of talk.

Or is she obvlivious? Spreading her gospel of poetry, then moving on to the cool ascetic prose of a monastic life?

It's hard to know.

But not impossible.

Years later, I saw her at another party.

Talking sonnets to the hostess.

So I asked her about the poetry, about the effects on the other guests, about the ascetic prose.

And she swept up her hair, curled a long length behind her ear, and looked at me quizzically. "I just like poetry," she said. "There's nothing magical or amazing about it, I just like poetry."

And she turned back to the hostess. And I saw she was still wearing the knee-high boots.

And I knew she was wrong.

Which somehow, at that moment, was the most beautiful and sad poetry of all.