(lxxiii)


A confused conversation. I intend to sweep under her desk. She stand up to move her chair. Brown corduroy pants and a shirt too short, a fetching display of gut as she stretches. I nurse an embryo hard.

“What brings you to the fray so early?” I ask.

“Huh?” she asks.

“It' s six o'clock,” I say.

“I have to write a paper,” she says. An uneven smile. “I never see you working,” she says.

I laugh. “Nor will you, as a rule,” I say. “I want them to think that little elves do it.”

She thinks this is either weird or funny, I don't know which. I never know which. “I'm really burnt out,” she says.

I haven't any speed. I have a fresh pot of coffee, though.


Later I am tired, and talking to myself. — “Ah,” I mutter, “‘I was determined to know those knockers.’”

I laugh. — As usual, I don't know why I laugh.