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questioned and if you buy a large mirror perfect for over the mantel, copper and hammered with bright nails, he seems hurt and refuses to hang it or just lets the moment pass until it has been sitting in your closet for months and doesn’t listen to what you have to say about it then or ever.
    But on the trip, my friend says, she cared what he thought and he cared what she thought and not only about architecture. What I mean is that they choose to ask about what the other one thinks and then they ask pointed questions about what you think and then they talk about it. He was a jewel, she tells me more times than she tells me about the Carpaccio and the martyrdom of Saint Ursula. You’ll like him so much, she says and arranges for us to meet for dinner and she hangs on him and chooses that moment to lift her left foot so that she needs his arm for balance, and says how charming he is right there in front of him and makes it seem as if no one else is charming and no one has ever done what she’s done before.
    What does it mean to be so agog about another person who ought to be just furniture, what I mean is, ought to blend in so to speak, not to be tended to buttaken for granted, like your brown sofa you don’t much notice until a stray cat from the neighborhood gets in and scratches it to bits and you realize now that you see it that you don’t like it much, thank goodness since it is ruined.
    Do I e-mail her back and tell her it’s no good displaying someone else for the world or expecting the world to sit up and take notice of someone as if that someone were not just a man one has chosen for oneself, but a bona fide phenomenon. Perfection is overrated really even if the person does have perfect taste, you feel a bit shoved in the corner, you know, like when I’d chosen the bathroom sconces myself and they did seem right to me at the time. Maybe it’s better not to speak about one’s choices over and over but just to let them be, the choices one has made, I mean, and get on with it. Like my not choosing anything really for some time now or trying not to, although how one can try not to choose isn’t clear to me and isn’t something I’d quite thought of until now.
    Of course I don’t write saying all this to her, any more than I tell her that she needs please to stop talking to me as if I were a child, selfish and unable to accommodate anyone or stand any sort of change, since of course she needs to talk to me this way and who cares really except for thinking about why someone younger would talk to someone older in this way which of course I know the answer already and find it mildly annoying but not so much as to do anything about it.
    I mean what can you do when someone thinks they know it all and have made a perfect choice. Although you may be thinking about how I need advice when I go about carelessly dropping everything in the garage and all and how I let the cat get in and why were my doors wide open in the first place and I deserve to have a ruined sofa.
    But what I do wonder about and can’t stop thinking about is the embracing of another, the human dimension of it, you know, and on the other hand, the arbitrariness of choice which alters everything completely. But then, I don’t like living with anyone, can’t imagine why anyone would take it on and can’t understand why anyone would do it, much less rave on about it. I’m thinking of the nature of willpower, how much some people have and how different it is just thinking about it without having to get up from this sofa which I guess I like well enough after all just as it is, back where it was, even the cat which appears at my feet from time to time having got here from who knows where and seems to have decided, if cats can do such things, to stay.

Cones
    It was as light as wind skimming over the surface of the earth, as light as footprints making no mark, a rain that made nothing wet, as if