Bret Weir and the Deuce.(a prospective novel called "Field of Flowers")

He was quite indefinite, this Bret Weir, standing there like a Bop Doll, to flop and flap about.

And she was confused, feeling a point in time with heart-numb fingers, a point in time, historical, him to ask of her, a historical moment, and it was out of her grasp, and was elapsing into history like a big pile of history sliding off of cardboard into a large refuse bag, sliding right into, from the future to the present, making of history, sliding right off into the past, and yet, there he was--this little daylight, and there had been, what? billions of days, maybe, and this was just one: the day that Bret Weir came to her, encroached her rooms, and had her permission, to stand there at least, Lord knows what he might say, something of history, maybe, something of four score and so many dimwit footsteps, something historical, if not reciting history, then actually, stupidly, indolently, manufacturing something of history in the sunny happenstance of the present moment--something of consequence to slide off of cardboard into a plastic bag.

And she was confused, and the interim was not the interim, but something of the eternal, the metaphysical, the omnipresence that is confusion: kind of a blankness that one could misinterpret as light, something that obscures detail, like a very bright light, but something yet dim, like the low light on statuary at night, even though it was the sunny happenstance of Brit's visit, her renegotiating with herself to hide under the bed, making a kind of middle of the road compromise, deciding not to yell, or give pretense, not to lie for the sake of his feelings, but to just stand there, compromised in a kind of sense, on her knees, on the bed, hands on thighs, and her mouth was opened like she was halfway in surprise, and halfway caught in the machine-rumble of thought from her inner person(though it was more surprise, her watching something of the history of her life, something for the scrapbook, Bret Weir, the day he said something to her, and all, kind of out of the ordinary, novel enough and original, something of the very novelty of life, how life came up with something revolting abnormal amidst the dullness of the common trudge of the daily existence--that sunny happenstance).

How savage!  How savage: whatever.  Savage, simple and ultimately presuming.

And she was confused, herself a newer version mother bear that had never been in the woods.  Maybe even she still had the plastic on her seat cushions, maybe, and that smell of intermingling types of plastics, too, something between cherry, flowers, and soap, she had the fresh mama bear smell, and existentially, she was up-ended and maybe a bit out of sync, the picture and the words she was experiencing, the track of her thoughts and various bodily stimuli, all helter skelter and knobby parts jutting, and indentures and various peaks and valleys, the whole thing literally belonging in a trash bag: she could almost see it sliding on a cardboard panel into a rubbish bin, where it properly belonged, but part of her was not quite certain, because there was an invisible line somewhere such that necessity would deter her from trashing some things, altogether.

She shook her head, not knowing whether or not he had actually spoke, and he dissipated out of the room like the smoke of burned bread from an oven pan with a window open to just draw it all out of the room.

That damned sliding along of something, a ring or his watchband or something, sliding along the siding, and him sidling along like a wind trudging wearily into the distance, and he plunked a molding or a door trim--it clacked louder than the rest--and then it was back to that noise, almost like rainfall, somewhere between rainfall acting like a bit of musical entertainment, and the roofspace shadowboxing it, between that and something on the decibel label of skin on the sheets, that kind of sliding whisper type of thing, and when it was gone, she was just as confused, of course, though more at ease, and in that confusion, she pushed the total vagrancy of those recently passed moments into some dark mental corner where no light of her attentions, no radiance from her thoughts, would ever so much as flit anywhere near it.