He has been sitting with a coffee for a while – two weeks now – and pages growing thinner with reading and less fascination in a Ginsberg, an Auden and Sunday papers spread liberally across the table with crumbs.
She had been on his mind but each time dismissed. It was irrelevant to think of her, the decision had been made. When all elements pointed to an illustrious union Truth – or some form of it – had spurned him for another turn. And she had refused to go away.
She had been like a crumb – the kind that he would find worked between the pages of a Ginsberg when reading again on the train – but worked between synapses grinding away at neurons until they ceased to function.
And to think that it was only a piece of grit.
But dimensions roll within themselves and in this piece, in this tiny removal of awareness, was a world off from which he had shut himself – and the world would have its way.
Lying in bed as if in a fever, writhing between dimensions of his own thought, he descended into something that he had elsewhere heard described as Zen. Options were examined coldly until folding into each other, no option remained.
It was a phone a call with a voicemail to greet it. She has yet to return the call.