If it wasn’t a dream then I definitely needed to try to fit in as much as I possibly could. If it was a dream, then I lost nothing by trying. Sort o... like the argument made by one of those French philosophers — Fermat or Pascal or someone, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Descartes — about believing in religion. Damn but I was going to miss Google! By now I’d have the name of the philosopher and the full quote at hand.Given that I needed to try to pass myself off as ten years old the next question was. ‘Wow, nice eyes,’ she said in seeing them. ‘Thanks. Some say they’re eerie looking.’ ‘I can see why but when you smile they’re amazing, less intense.’ Though feeling complimented he decided perfume was a bad idea, telling her as much. When he turned to leave she asked using a different tone, ‘How about a bottle of Red?’ For some reason his first thought was the color of blood. When he turned to look at her he feared she might be smiling — fangs showing. Instead he saw her innocently holding up. She is the lady of the house who on the night of my first guest had been dressed as a man and had performed with Bella and Grace. She was indeed a little masculine in appearance but in a gown of white cotton she looked very beautiful. Her hair is dark brown, her skin a little sallow and her eyes shaped like almonds. One might think her to have mixed blood. Mixed blood or not, she was very striking, and exceeding tall. Even seated as we were my nose was level with her sharp chin. ‘What are you. Then, I’m on the phone with Mom, and she asks what I’ve been up to lately. I’m at a party, chatting up one of the local honeys. She seems interested, she’s holding her drink just so and has her head tilted at a very precise angle, carefully calculated to accentuate the degree to which she’s cocked her left eyebrow. We’ve talked about our jobs, laughed at each other’s clever remarks, and she asks what I do for fun. I tell her about the juggling and the music, and then she talks about her poetry.
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