oak, poorly padded, ass-cheek-hardening booth and talk about things like the Wellness Profession and the pros and cons of socialized medicine and why maybe the French and the Swedes have figured it out and the insane hours doctors put in for the good of mankind and how fluorescent hospital lighting makes one look and eventually feel bloodless as a macadamia nut, which can be generally counterintuitive to healing, and how the cafeteria fare at Decatur Memorial has actually improved quite a bit since they brought in the new eco-friendly food services company.
And over his medium-rare porterhouse steak, in between graceful but without a doubt masculine mastication, Dennis Church, in his lightweight, well-tailored spring/summer business suit, tells the sea-foam-green-eyed beauty across from him about the loneliness of traveling and how low-down and just plain weird it is to have your only companions be your company-bought MacBook Pro and your tricked-out company-financed smartphone, and how sometimes he wishes he lived a simpler life, in a small town with like a Little League diamond and a swimming hole and a barbershop with one of those swirling red-white-and-blue barber poles and ceramic Nativity scenes erected on the lawns of churches during the holiday season and a really high-quality miniature golf course with a windmill that’s so big it almost looks real and a shopping mall with an authentic food court and a grade-A Fourth of July fireworks display at the local speedway and a lima-bean-colored water tower with the town’s name featured in black majuscule letters.
And in between his words, Sheila Anne imagines her life in New York. The faster metabolism it would educe and the taxicabs and the inconceivable volume of humanity teeming on actual boulevard-sized streets and wide cement sidewalks and sluicing bike messengers and the unspoken rules of engagement on subway cars and the new urban way of walking and the learned skill of avoiding insane encephalitic homeless people with swollen carbuncular faces and leaky eyes and Pilates at dawn and bartenders who can knock your socks off reciting Shakespearean soliloquies while shaking the daylights out of a martini and high-speed elevators and crammed espresso bars and the yeasty sweet smell of Broadway theater lobbies.
And every other sentence or so Sheila Anne starts to imagine this New York life with him , this incredibly magnetic Dennis Church, who has undone the top button of his oxford now and loosened his tie so his impressive, well-shaven Adam’s apple can be free to dance a bit. And although at this point it is an absurd, premature notion because she is very much married and supposedly in love with and spiritually and legally committed to a man she lost her mind over some four years earlier, she lets her imagination run like a wild horse galloping along the cliffs of the Costa Brava, and all she can see is Dennis’s presumably fit, low-fat, highly conditioned body poised over hers, the two of them composed missionary-style in some cheap roadside motel room off Route 41, with great classic soul music like Larry Graham’s “One in a Million You” playing at a volume so perfect that they can inhale the music with the pores of their conjoined bodies and yet also hear each other’s animal pleasure—the wordless mewls and whimpers—releasing into and infusing with Larry Graham’s velveteen baritone and by the end of their meal, which she can’t even remember eating, let alone choosing, Sheila Anne Falbo has decided to give herself permission to fall under the spell of this extremely thoughtful, surprisingly charming, endlessly interesting gentleman with the aquiline nose who is sitting across from her.
Earlier I keyed into the Bunches’ unit. The grief over their missing daughter tinges the air like a spoiled egg. Their apartment is surprisingly neat, with furniture that is as beige as it is simple. I assume their plain living is due more to ignorance than
And over his medium-rare porterhouse steak, in between graceful but without a doubt masculine mastication, Dennis Church, in his lightweight, well-tailored spring/summer business suit, tells the sea-foam-green-eyed beauty across from him about the loneliness of traveling and how low-down and just plain weird it is to have your only companions be your company-bought MacBook Pro and your tricked-out company-financed smartphone, and how sometimes he wishes he lived a simpler life, in a small town with like a Little League diamond and a swimming hole and a barbershop with one of those swirling red-white-and-blue barber poles and ceramic Nativity scenes erected on the lawns of churches during the holiday season and a really high-quality miniature golf course with a windmill that’s so big it almost looks real and a shopping mall with an authentic food court and a grade-A Fourth of July fireworks display at the local speedway and a lima-bean-colored water tower with the town’s name featured in black majuscule letters.
And in between his words, Sheila Anne imagines her life in New York. The faster metabolism it would educe and the taxicabs and the inconceivable volume of humanity teeming on actual boulevard-sized streets and wide cement sidewalks and sluicing bike messengers and the unspoken rules of engagement on subway cars and the new urban way of walking and the learned skill of avoiding insane encephalitic homeless people with swollen carbuncular faces and leaky eyes and Pilates at dawn and bartenders who can knock your socks off reciting Shakespearean soliloquies while shaking the daylights out of a martini and high-speed elevators and crammed espresso bars and the yeasty sweet smell of Broadway theater lobbies.
And every other sentence or so Sheila Anne starts to imagine this New York life with him , this incredibly magnetic Dennis Church, who has undone the top button of his oxford now and loosened his tie so his impressive, well-shaven Adam’s apple can be free to dance a bit. And although at this point it is an absurd, premature notion because she is very much married and supposedly in love with and spiritually and legally committed to a man she lost her mind over some four years earlier, she lets her imagination run like a wild horse galloping along the cliffs of the Costa Brava, and all she can see is Dennis’s presumably fit, low-fat, highly conditioned body poised over hers, the two of them composed missionary-style in some cheap roadside motel room off Route 41, with great classic soul music like Larry Graham’s “One in a Million You” playing at a volume so perfect that they can inhale the music with the pores of their conjoined bodies and yet also hear each other’s animal pleasure—the wordless mewls and whimpers—releasing into and infusing with Larry Graham’s velveteen baritone and by the end of their meal, which she can’t even remember eating, let alone choosing, Sheila Anne Falbo has decided to give herself permission to fall under the spell of this extremely thoughtful, surprisingly charming, endlessly interesting gentleman with the aquiline nose who is sitting across from her.
Earlier I keyed into the Bunches’ unit. The grief over their missing daughter tinges the air like a spoiled egg. Their apartment is surprisingly neat, with furniture that is as beige as it is simple. I assume their plain living is due more to ignorance than
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