Wrong Hell

“Take my plate!” I said.

“No!” he said, “Not yet! Do you want these? Have you any interest in these?” he said.

They were dished up, compressed, difficult to crumble, much like any child.

“Did I do wrong?” I said.

“You did wrong,” he said. “Don’t cry,” he said. “Don’t put that there,” said he. “Is it asking too much?”

“Sorry, take my plate! I am so sorry,” I said.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “Do you want these? Have you any interest in these?” he said. The melon and the figs.

I rubbed a napkin over my hands. That is to say it’s the finish of a meal even if only just a little more bleating is required. In my private act, I depend on the ending for my simpler, better, and richer act. It’s not good enough, toying with figs, even if they’re indispensable to enthusiasts.

“Is the salad good enough?” who says.

“Yes, yes. Ye-es. You remember? That’s amazing, that last time it wasn’t.”

“Ye-es.”

“That’s remarkable that you remember.”

“I remember.”

“That was so long ago. She remembers!”