Hur said to Hymn, I had an odd dream last night. Hymn said to Hur, Oh, so did I. Hur smiled with his lips closed. Hymn said to Hur, There were harlequins; they were dancing about me; I was in a bakery buying some orange juice, and the others customers turned and looked at me when I made my order -- I thought they were looking at me strangely because why would you buy juice in a bakery? but I suddenly realised they were harlequins, colored diamond tights and everything, in their frozen spastic masks with the hooked noses and gaping nostrils; I tried to run out onto the street, but they blocked me in, and one of them spilt a sack of flour, which blew out into a great cloud of just whiteness, powder white; and they started whirling about me; I couldn't really see them clearly, but sometimes one of them would lean in and leer at me and leap back into the cloud just as I cried out; and then I finally caught one, by his nose, and snapped the elastic on his mask. And it was you, Hur, with your puffy cheeks and your dark sad eyes. And your pretty spandex tights, ha ha ha!
Do I really have puffy cheeks, Hur said to Hymn. No, they're beautiful cheeks, she cooed, and she leaned down to stroke his face, thumb on his right cheek and fingers sliding down his left. Hur looked at his knees. They're getting a bit spikey now though, she said. Hur twisted up a corner of his mouth: And my eyes aren't dark, they're a light hazel, didn't you say? But they're hidden in the shadow of that enormous brow! Hymn laughed. Oh don't frown, it gives you headaches, remember -- you have a lovely face: I think it's be-eww-tif-ul. Hur stood up, and Hymn looked up, and Hur craned his neck down to kiss her forehead lightly, dryly, quickly. Then he moved to the window, slipping his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.
Should get this glass replaced, Hur whispered, tracing the spiderweb crack, then inspecting his finger and flicking off the dust. Eh, shrugged Hymn. And Hur stood at the window, and the silence seemed to him like clean mountain air, particles of oxygen separated by pockets of pure nothing, a disembodying, enchanting emptiness. And Hymn stood near the door, and the silence seemed to her like vertigo, like the view from the top of a waterslide in the fog, a terrible threat of slip-slipping away, so she navigated her way through the clothes and books on the floor to stand behind him. Where, lifting herself onto her toes, she crossed her arms and placed her elbows on his shoulders, her breasts pressing warmly upon his ribs, her eyes peeking out past him at the dirty white sky.
A moment passed, the balls of her feet became sore, she lowered herself and walked out of the room. Hur stood at the window for another few minutes, staring into the middle distance, not seeing the grime or the crack, or the skeletal tree mourning its leaves in the foreground. Then he awoke, suddenly bored, and sat down to put on some music.
Joseph | 8 Aug 2003