Nancy Weak

1

She stepped over a stone, a stone, not exactly. And, at the very least, what began as loitering in the green yard, was not calming for her.

She wore the sundress which was not dull enough and with every stride she took, her hair was bumped by her hat.

2

She entered an old-fashioned shop on a famous street where more than several damaged objects are kept.

“Can I help you?” an old-fashioned woman said.

“Oh, you have this!” Nancy said. “It isn’t com­fortable. It hurts. It’s heavy.”

“Yes. It picks up all of the lights in the evening.”

And then as a household fly might do rudely, Nancy left the shop in a rush.

3

In this same year Aborn stumped toward Nancy.

He was intending to be useful to her, not to ap­pear to be ill-timed or unreasonable. If he gave her hand a friendly shake, he might startle her.

Even so, she was roughly grasped from behind.

Unaware who held her, she tried to pull free.

She thought, I may be in distress!

She worked to free herself, did not turn, did not speak, but presently, she was let go.

“Mr. Aborn!” Nancy said.

“Nancy!” he said, “I wish I could think of your last name.”

4

“My name is Nancy! You saw me.”

No, no, no doubt, Aborn saw all of her displea­sure, and how unsafe she was.

“My dear!” he said, “I like your hat!”

“Thanks,” she said. “I got right into bed and went to sleep after you left.”

“Then you must have felt fine.”

Past the terrified shrubs, they bothered to go, and then they went along toward an old-fashioned shop where Nancy pressed the bell. When the bell signalled its habitual reaction, they went on in.

5

“That’s what I want,” said Nancy.

“Did you look at everything they have?” Aborn said. “Let us look at everything.”

“This is eighteen years old,” she said. “That’s old-fashioned. Is it old-fashioned enough for you?”

“Which one do you want?” Aborn said.

“Is that old enough? This one,” Nancy said.

6

Well, well, next they sat side by side in a taxicab sedan and the world was crammed high, large, and long.

At the restaurant things are not too bad.

There’s a pancake for dessert.

The server’s face—her hopeful fur-lined eyes—please Nancy and Nancy wants to charm this girl. She is unable to resist that, so the server says slyly, “I will never forget you,” when the moment for parting is clear.

7

It was a breezy lightness they ambled into and many things were being put upon. A huge flowery bush had no self-command and Nancy’s petals bulged a bit. She had bought her­self some roses and the dream flowers, the unpretentious hovels, and the places all about were particularly dreamy, she thought.

8

Aborn, quite brightly, went on ahead, all by him­self, in search of some dandy souls he’d never known before.

But where are you now? Nancy had to think inside of her house, as she unwrapped her buds and trimmed their stems with the boning knife.

The roses were just too weary and they fell all over themselves.

Still, she did encourage them so that they did not lose heart inside of their tankard, nor did they ever much resemble the living things.

9

Her immature new brooch she skewered onto her­self, and she hung her hat on the genitalia of a chair.

The roses were okay. They were scented with Beconase.

10

Those Floradora roses.

“Hi,” said the girl to her old mother who was dressed in quilted slippers and bunchy clothes.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, “dear.”

11

Nancy’s father would need to have his coitus with the old woman when he got home, so the old guy did.

Hush!—they went up the stairs to do this in a room pale as this is where among other things the tables are surmounted by lamps and the decorations are bronze-tinted.

Welcome to the afternoon.

With slight astonishment, the old man said, “I will, of course, I will, if you want me to, do it again.”

“Now you rest,” his old wife said.

12

Nancy’s old mother is so old—such an out­moded thing, even the finger ring she wears is a mess.

It should be kept on her body for the best results.

13

Nancy’s father is ordinarily weak.

“Can you remember?” his wife says to him, “something good about me? Would you remind me?”

“Sit by me,” this mother of a few incongruous people says.

One of her feet is curled on its side, all floaty on the floor.

Her mouth aches. Her irradiated eyes are fine.

She is regarded in certain circles as a slacker.

14

“The floors look bad,” the old man says. “Next time bleach them or use a more powerful cleaner.”

15

“I’ll bleach them.”

16

Then the mother says, “Tell me again how did Len die?”

17

“He was an independent boy,” his father said.

“How did he die?” the mother asked.

“He was killed,” said Nancy.

“He was not killed,” the old woman said.

The father said, “As I said before, his head, his head was lopped off with a clasp-knife.” What­ever that is.

18

Father, oh father of people!

“I hurt my head,” he said, rubbing a knob on his face near his ear.

And his old wife is not as well-liked any more.

19

For an instant the old man appears highly intellectual.

20

He could see the sharp small hairs above his old wife’s mouth and on her arm.

21

During the intermission, Aborn arrives.

“Just point the way,” said Nancy. “Thank you.”

22

And the old woman butchers bread to a fare-thee-well.

Upstairs the topsheets won’t overstrain them­selves when Nancy does not wear her loose outer garment or her overshoes.

She is lying down on those linens with Aborn and the original extent of her relief points upward undoubtably.