II

How elusive is a drink? Could have saved sunday's white for tuesday's sunset, but fish does go with white wine, my dad reminded me, and, i suppose, the tired calm of the evening, its last waves of light reflected in dark skin, goes with a bottle of champagne.
We kept quiet as a plane cruised the muted sky and the wind brushed the trees, but we kept quiet because there was nothing to celebrate. Summer came and we sat at the table, neatly put, with smoked salmon and toasted bread and I can't remeber exactly how it felt: yes, the town had been changed beyond recognition; incoherence, - not unlike my life, i thought -, had built large deserted squares. No trees, my dad added.
We ought to make time to sit and remember. To carelessly sip champagne. Or white wine poured over sliced peaches. Maybe tomorrow.

I

For the past two weeks – two weeks being the maximum extent of my attention or desire – I’ve been dreaming of two things: a job that best fits Churchill’s account of democracy and a glass of white wine poured over sliced peaches. That one cannot get both while sunbathing by the pool merits some research or, at least, some thought and pause. So I pause a little longer: in the face of such a bewildering paradox, surely books can wait a few more minutes.