Written By: Matt Boyle

The fountains were pristine and reminded Paul of Switzerland. He had been there to purchase art and remembered most of all the fountains. Now and again he will pop in as a synthetic device. As if children can make things better, Miranda grew with his seed, anesthetic to an unconsummated relationship. It grows for years, taking hold in the face of others. She was beautiful. He was handsome also, together the image they had always envisioned for themselves. Paul was educated at an all-boys school in Manhattan. Unlike some he had grown with, his parents had instilled within him a sense of fine things, one of them being language, not connected to contingency. The Euro-centric vacuum he lived in was an easy target for liberal ne’er-do-wells concerned with what they could not control, and what Paul was given as a birthright but chose not to indulge. This was reflected in the art he consumed . Miranda met Paul at a fundraising gala her parents of unknown ethnic origin had back-slapped their way into. She is from Queens. I do not have the discipline to contain myself in these situations. Tangential Connection to Violence; oh how I Desire Your Sweet Milk!

A number of things went wrong early today. However I did not budge and let them wash over me, processed into a delicate sense of humor. Not the English way. There was that man in the diner coming back from the Hamptons. He was gross. There was tendrils of booger and snot which hung from his nose as he loomed above you in your seat to take your order. If you did not want a joke to happen, he would do it anyway. We were in good spirits from having escaped a place of decay and were good for any human contact, even this nasty man. Mumbled a bit. Excused himself from dealing with us after the act was over. Is that all I have to say? I could go for longer. So I will. This type of gross Englishman seems to revel in the nasty aspects of life. Normally, this would not offend me. But you are a waiter. Perform your station. Leave the Hamptons if you do not want to be there. This is all easy. I have trapped myself in places, am trapped in the room I am in right now with the high walls and fireplace. Engage your entrapment or escape, I would say to this man, but he has figured it out, and he has been trapped, and so are you, at Fairway Restaurant! It is on a golf course. The land as you move eastwards on Long Island becomes more condensed and narrow. The air is good because the converging notions of ocean and bay crash into one another in fresh pine tree forests. We were out there in the winter, when there is not much to do. I had wanted to go to the island of New Shoreham. An island felt more right, although to expand the metaphor into infinity dissolves John Donne’s metaphor. You are an island.

She was laughing at me. Because I gave a response she seemed to have heard before from people who share something with me and of which I am a type. She laughed at me because what I said did not reverberate with truth. The first person I consciously loved was named Christa. She was born on Christmas Day. This made her feel bad because she always got more presents in celebration of something other than herself on a day which is very important to a young child to have for themselves. We played a game where she would roll a boll at my legs as they were spread open. Sometimes it would be too hard and then she would do it softer and I would let it miss and hit between my legs because it gave pleasure. Christa was Puerto Rican. She was adopted into the white family of a Catholic part of town. You drop a plate. That older man who is always there with his child looks at you. He has a chain. You have seen him there before with his wife and he did not like how you interacted so she has since never come back although he has come with the sons often when he never had before. There is nothing strange and he likes sauce. Good win Mets! You see I loved this girl. I loved this girl and I did not know it, until years later, when time had passed and she had grown up. A woman in Istanbul first made me aware of these feelings. Then Christa followed the music I create under a special name. And the language I used has come back in the relationship with Christina. Do not ask. Please. I am unsure if this is good. Because it was matriarchal. Now it is patriarchal. Love. Sex. Bind.
Our Special Language.