She spoke in the rhythms of New York. Breezing past me in the office that first day, I asked her how it was going. "So faw, OK," she said. There was something in that faw. Some sort of magic in the way she couldn't, though I knew it was the fault of her environment--not an imperfection in her, bring her tongue to the roof of her mouth to pronounce that final 'r' in "far." The grandeur of the tallest buildings, the rush of the millions of feet; the lights and music of Broadway combined with the sultry hush of the 42nd Street Library. I saw a late night pub-crawl in Greenwich Village and a crack of dawn fishing trip off of Sheepshead Bay. All this lay in that brief reply. It rooted me to the spot as everything that was summer whisked past me in her wake. Her name was Dawn, and with her short words began a new day of my love.
Submitted by Gina Berardesco - 4700gbera@umbsky.cc.umb.edu
And how shall I describe Dawn? CAN I really capture this angelic creature on so meager a medium as 8 1/2 x 11 foolscap? Anyway, I will try. Dawn's not a tall angel, merely 5' 4", but surely no celestial visitor was ever more feminine. She fills out her dresses (especially the black stretchy sheath she likes to wear on Fridays) like no mere cherubim has ever filled a samite robe.
Her long, blond mane, with its titillating hint of dark roots, haunts my perfervid dreams, dreams of erotic exploration of sweet terra incognita. I've stood behind her at the water cooler, sniffing, sniffing. What sweet shampoo doth my angel use, to give her locks such savor?
If sweet Dawn wears a perfume, I do not know its name, but her scent is utterly captivating. As she passes me, all aloof and unawares, in the corridor, I close my eyes and am once again in Brooklyn, and it is again that first, and last, sweet summer of my youth, where I was first given the gift, the mystery of love, by sloe-eyed Rose the meter-maid. But I digress . . .
Submitted by Derek Davis - derek@troll.com
The daily routine or workaday life dampens the dew of sweet Dawn. I hunger for her, much as my stomach churns when I haven't eaten for three hours (I have a constant intestinal disturbance), but her sustenance slips by like a ghost in a graveyard. When can we approach to what I think it is that we were meant to envision together? With Rose it was so simple, but with Dawn it is as complex as quadratic equations or Riemanian geometry. Will our parallel lines never meet (or is it that all parallel lines eventually meet? Or is that Lobachefsky?)
Today I thought to hold her hand, but it was thought only. In reality she handed me a memo for a meeting of the Cleanup Committee, and though our fingers touched briefly, it was a piece of paper we exchanged, not a meaningful glance. Everything comes between us--the memos, the dictation, the desk, that strange statue of Adonis adjusting his fig leaf, given me by...Rose. Rose.