GLEE

We have a drink of coffee and a Danish and it has this, what we call—grandmother cough-up—a bright yellow filling. The project is to resurrect glee. This is the explicit reason I get on a bus and go to an area where I do this and have a black coffee.

I emphasize, I confess, as well, that last night I came into a room, smiled a while and my laughter was like a hand on my own shoulder. As I opened up the volume of the television set, I saw a television beauty and a man wants to marry her and she says, “I don’t do that sort of thing.”

While in their company, the woman changes her clothing and puts down an article of clothing and folds it. How finely she shows us her efforts. Even as we have that behind us, the man speaks. His side-locks are worn next to his chin and his hair is marred by bright lights. The woman’s head is set against a dark-purple shield of drapery. But when something momentous occurs, I am glad to say there is a sense of crisis.

And for Vera and me—we are no exception. I’ve lived for years. In Chicago our sunsets are red creases and purple bulges and we can amuse ourselves with them.