At Balfour’s (Moving Sale) I saw the girl from Canzine who brought Blueprint to trade, smiling and trembling. In Balfour’s we both started at each other: she started and I started in response. Then we stalked each other among the bookshelves–more startling, I figured out who she was–growing our acquaintence into a smiling, not a startling one. And then she left.

Coming back triumphant from a quick and steep hill-climb I haven’t done in days on my bicycle I am panting and I tell Keith about the girl and ask him if he remembered her, since he was the only one there the first time. I told him only that I startled her in Balfour’s. He remembered her, but in his memory the event was cemented by her going to speak to some other guy moments afterwards: so her reflexive trembl’g was undermin’d or falsified or shown in a broader context, or something.

Making papaya slush Lisa asks me if I saw anyone today, I said “Yes, kind of,” and she asked “Who?” and I told her she didn’t know who, that I’d tell her later. Lori is lying on the bed Mojito-exhausted and looking meringue-tinged like a golden flapper, and Keith is sitting near me on the couch reading. The windows are open and in the breeze curtains flow like the first scene in the movie adaptation of The Great Gatsby, when Nick goes to meet Daisy and Miss Baker in East Egg.

Sitting on the ledge over the sunk floor in our second kitchen I go to Lisa out of (I think) filial responsibility and tell her about the encounter that I was too shy to shout out from the living room. Though there are people over I feel intimate and casual. Lisa thinks the papaya smells like vomit, and I don’t think so and eat some.

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