"Be patient. You line up with a woman don't you. And you never leave her. You might add more women. You never leave any of them."
"Save a page."
"Of what."
"Your appointment diary. It's there, by the phone. Put me in."
"Sure. What day do you want."
"Any day."
"Afternoons on Thursdays. I'm not kidding."
"I'm not either."
"Smithy, let's have the now. Although the past is nice to have around as well. I want to grab it right now."
"Grab it."
"Wow. I yam der yingle. Ralph said you said."
"Shake it goodbye. You humperdink."
"O gee. It's saying hello. It's shaking my hand."
"Sally, my God we're being watched."
"Whoops. Beat it Ralph."
"O yeah, sure."
Ralph, his back hiding a frown all over his face clicking the door closed behind these two lovers.
"Tell me, Smithy, is it true."
"What."
"About the machine you have installed. That claps and roars. Out of a loud speaker."
"Who told you that."
"I'm not telling. Does it really roar and cheer."
"Yes. At the end of a sentence."
"Why do you need it."
"When I'm lonely, sometimes, and feel powerless."
"O come on."
"Just nice to stand in my room in Dynamo. Switch it on, on a bereft Saturday afternoon. Has a seeing eye. Shake a fist. Thirty five thousand voices roaring. It says on the label."
"And if you let this out. And waved it. Flashed it to the machine."
"Yes. Roars and claps."
"I'll join that, Smithy, you know when I tried to phone you the last day or two. I had dreams about you. You were wearing pyjamas and spectacles and you stood at a window after opening these heavy metal shutters. And you know what you were holding. A pneumatic drill."
"I beg your pardon."
"I was a street girl walking in front of an opera house. You came out with the drill. I came up to you talking another language and wagging my ass. Followed you right by your shoulder, you didn't even look. Then I just stopped and watched a bunch of guys dressed in blue with big thick leather boots coming up out of a sewer in the road. They were saying hi to each other, like long lost friends. Some dream. A bellybuster. Don't go, now. Stay."
"I must."
"I keep leaving all my guests for you. Claude had to run out for a minute."
Smith's hand on Tomson's backside. Quiet light of her bedroom. A servants elevator up to this labyrinthine house of hers, touching the clouds. You sleep with a lot of men, said it was too much trouble to fight. Easier to let them in. Nearly kept me out. On an island surrounded by milk white water. See through the crack in your bathroom door, rozy marble and steps to a sunken bath. Feel poor. With a flick of your fingernail your world is so full of blue and gold. My bath stands on makeshift cast iron lion paws. And you step down into yours, like a beach with two tides a day. And all I have is a little rubber pillow to rest my head while I wallow. I need the cheering, roars of crowds. Once the machine went wrong, something slipped. Just as I was shouting Til win. And thirty five thousand voices went hee hee.
"Smithy will you ever put on diapers and baby's bonnet and go through the street blasting a trombone."
"Most certainly not."
"I like that. Say it again."
"Most certainly not."
"Come on stay for breakfast. Watch the sun come up. Right up over there it comes, red as anything."
Tomson leaning back against her bedroom wall, raises her slipper, scratches the back of her leg. Voice out there among her friends, says where's Sally. And toot toot down there on the river. Her back is shivering. Trembling. After our litde nuzzling. All without warning. She breaks in two. Precious. This flesh. One drop. A tear. Falls on my own black slipper, neatly between the bow. And what she is. As I held her head in darkness between my hands. Put my fingers around her throat. She didn't take them away. As Shirl always gently did. But left them there for me to kill her if I liked. To trust. Calms the nerves. Her death under my hands, a strange beauty.
"Smithy Til never get up the aisle. I know it."
"You will."
"I should have seen you in all those missing weeks. I wondered how you were holding out against the dear Sir, do not be a zurd. P.S. You know the letter we mean for Z. Smithy. I want to hand you one of my kidneys."