story, poem

Story:

Last night. At the right place, in the perfect dress, a bit early for once. Pop around the corner to see if book shop is open because am feeling slightly adrift in spring breeze and light. Want to stand among stacks of happy endings and epic tragedies to put own life into better perspective. And kill time. Shop is dark, though, with man sitting on stoop in front of locked door. A handsome man, smoking and swirling something around a crystal glass. Turn to walk away and then turn back, dress twirling perfectly, when he calls out looking for a book? Get unreasonably shy and shrug but wait while man pulls keys from pocket, unlocks door and finishes cigarette in seemingly single motion. Very suave. Follow him into to shop. Take as much time as you want, it's just me and my whiskey tonight. Wander around, enchanted by dust, dark, absence, man, paper, whiskey, solitude. Find treasure - copies of Ashberry, Kunitz, Matthews. Man gives me all three for a song.

Poem:

The Calculus
William Matthews

There is a culture which counts like this: "one,
two, many." It is sufficient. They don't use numbers
to measure. There are so many women your wife
gets pushed out of bed. Everyone knows without a
name for it how many dead men a camel can carry.
There is so little light the dark part of each eye
grows knuckle-size.
The invention of zero will end their life. They don't
say "no moon tonight"; they say "the moon is
gone." We add this egg of absence to anything
-- then we are richer.