It was so humid some nights you could not close your door. You had to shoulder your door closed. Bridges expanded and sidewalks cracked and there was garbage in the streets and you had to sort of talk to your door before it would close for you.
She loved the nights that were electrical, a static in the air and lightning in soft pulses, in great shapeless beats, you can almost read the rhythmic pattern, slow and protoplasmal, and maybe a Cinzano awning fixed to a table on a higher terrace--you can't identify that gunshot sound until you spot the striped awning, edges snapping in the breeze.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Summer Reading #2
From Underworld by Don DeLillo: