Leavetakings

I turned toward him and his hand came off in mine. “Very good,” he said. But I saw an angel behind his tie with the yellow fishes on it. Ceramic dogs would have swarmed about his wing-tipped feet if they could have. “There’s a calendar in my office. You can have it if you wish.”

I was flattered.

I gave his hand back to him.

“Good-bye,” I tried to say, but all that came out was, “Fish.”

“Fish?”

“Um . . . on your tie.”

“Yes, well.”

And two flights of marble steps leapt between us, dripping rainwater on everything. Miles and miles of goodness, that. Yellow goodness, like the fish. Like the bus passing.

“I want to go to the library.” They rolled off my fingers, those coins. They wanted October and November, not coins. And they were just one part of the whole faction. The rest would have been more violent, but organs are not known for that sort of thing.

My carrel had not yet turned to stone, so I sat in it. I watched the sunset in the window across the maintenance driveway. I reflected that white shirts were the best kind of shirts. That fish are often present illegally.

“Any notes for me?”

The woman looked at me as though she were surprised to see a tree in her library. “Uh . . . no-oo . . .” A book cart whisked her away. I think she preferred it to a bicycle.

I began to feel circular. Like my chin on someone else’s shoulder would have been a good thing. It was my dream. He dreamed of other things, I guess. Of antelopes and girls wearing pans on their heads.

But I wasn’t surprised to see the wolf in my laundry room, or when I opened the cupboard to behold the salt and pepper shakers debating the issue of common courtesy vs. desire.