Backmatter

The life of a date book thinking it needs to be somewhere. It’s a deluxe model so it can also recall where it’s been. It’s been in an undersea hotel lounge sipping Shirley Temples on account of the dry bar, waiting for a man with atomic bomb cataracts to write his number down. Now it’s on holiday somewhere else with a grocery list for a luau.

An octopus waiter told me this. One hand was calculating a bill, one was tearing up prayer cards, and one was pouring water sideways from a crystal pitcher. As for the rest, the magic eight ball told me to ask again.