I don’t know how to begin writing fiction, so … I’m not. I’m leaving the beginnings up to other authors, and branching off — from whatever I wind up underlining, dog-earring, generally wanting more of.
Currently reading: The Girl on the Fridge by Etgar Keret.
They’ll play a Keith Jarrett disc and everyone will listen, they’ll play a record and nobody will feel sad. And the ones who are on their own won’t feel alone tonight, and nobody will ask “Milk or cream?” because by now they’ll all know one another.
In the dream you’re aware it’s a dream, but that only makes slumber all the sweeter.
In the dream you have never kissed or hurt anyone, and everyone you will ever love is in your backyard. They are pouring iced lemonade and handing it to you, smiling. The wind is in their hair, their teeth are gleaming white, and they are full of anecdotes from their travels. They are wearing their favorite t-shirts. They just discovered their favorite band. They want to tell you everything, and in the dream you are a wonderful listener. You hold each person’s hand as they speak to you. “Tell me more,” you say to them. “How high was the wall? Did you speak the language? Were the breads soft like cake, or tough, like tires?” You are unladen with the past, light on your feet, trusting, entirely lovable. You are eager to fall in love with each of them for who they are. You are focusing on their words instead of your own. They wink and laugh and the sound of the wind in the leaves is the most incredible thing.
You are listening and nodding and holding their beautiful hands, pale and olive covered in fine hair, convinced that from now on you will mean every word you say, that any goodbyes will be brief and to the point.