A GROUP of students arrives at the bar.
Now look at that, Matthew thinks. That’s the sort of thing that makes me think there’s reason for hope.
What Matthew finds heartening about them is the fact that they are a racially mixed group of students, quite thoroughly mixed, exhibiting skin tones ranging from his own sandy pink to the rich brown of a good strong cup of coffee, the step from one tone to the next quite a narrow one, so that, if they were to line themselves up properly, they would resemble the flexible plastic scale Matthew holds against his teeth to assess the success of his whitening efforts. There seem to be no strong pairings within the group. They seem to be a group of friends, not pairs of lovers.
You know, he thinks, this could be the salvation of the world. Groups like this.
It helps your perception of them, BW suggests, that they are all young, attractive, and beautifully dressed. I’m certain it also helps that one of them is an eye-catching little girl, dressed entirely in black, who glanced at you when she arrived.
She’s looked this way a couple of times since then.
Perhaps she’s trying to guess your age. It may be a contest among them.
She really is quite attractive, a tiny thing, wearing a skirt of some elasticized material, so short that the hem, drawn in by the elastic additive, cups her buttocks precisely along their nether curve.
I thank you, God, thinks Matthew, for this most amazing fabric. And that I should have the good fortune to live in the age of miracle stretch fibers.
That is a gorgeous little ass, says BW.
You don’t have to put it that way.
Others join the group. As it grows it spreads along the bar, and the girl with the elasticized bottom shifts closer, closer to Matthew, whose upper lip begins to sweat.
You know, Matthew, says BW, you ought to consider the possibility that you’re nuts.
What do you mean?
Well, let’s look at your catalog of symptoms. At the top of the list we have — a mysterious odor. You’ve had your apartment torn apart as a result of what may be — let’s face it — an illusion.
It’s not. It’s no illusion. And it’s getting worse. It’s getting into my clothes. I can smell it now. This jacket smells of it. It’s — oily. Heavy smelling. Sickening. When I was a boy and sick with something or other, my mother brought me books to read in bed. Used books from her shop. One of them was — I don’t know — a guide to trees or something. It stank. It must have been mildew or something. I opened it, and it made me sick. Made me vomit. This is like that.
Mm.
Oh, cut it out. I don’t mean it’s just like that. I mean it has that effect. It’s starting to make me sick.
Mm.
You don’t smell it because you don’t want to. You ignore it.
[to be continued]
In Topical Guide 547, Mark Dorset considers Naïveté; Wishful Thinking; Good Works, Noble Efforts; Advertising: Appeal to Naïveté, Wishful Thinking, Good Works, Noble Efforts; and Allusion from this episode.
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