Now there is a flutter!  Keeping me from those eggs, lost to appetite, more buffeted by the dénouement than by the initial knotting, the release and relief un-numbing my hands and setting them shaking.  I find fiendish the cruel crushing grasp, raising gasps, in which a simple white oblong card can hold us.  The logo on it, rising sunnish from the datebook, will burn my retina for weeks.  It's astounding  that I don't tattoo that stray ticket  to my arm – even I  can't lose my skin (though that remains to be proven), but normal (for me) to precipitate a vow that never again will I  allow a concert seat to roam.  (Keeping the vow involves a different, lagged propulsion.) Now, about those eggs . . .

First published: February, 2011
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