It was a rejection. A form email. Barely polite. I thought the words, 'Dirk York calmy deleted the New Yorker rejection email and leaned back.' I leaned back in my chair. I can't stop narrating. I no longer narrate aloud. This is an important step. I thought the words, 'Dirk York ignored the sadness that penetrated his already saddened brain and carefully focused on the immediate and necessary problem: a voicemail, a voicemail cut short.' Actually, it was e-mail I was thinking about, an e-mail that had started out as a voicemail, and was transformed into an e-mail by a software program and then e-mailed to me. 'Dirk York decided to re-read the voice/e-mail.' I click a button on my mouse.
[vmail transcript start]d,
i saw A at the mark. she. i don't know. i tried to say something. she needs[vmail transcript end]
'Dirk York shook his head and surveyed his office.' I need to vacuum. I need to windex the window and tidy up a bit but I can't tidy up now. How could anyone have seen A anywhere? A disappeared almost ten years ago, just before we all graduated from college. 'Dirk York paced the length of his office like a...' I think I was going to narrate the words, 'like a caged lion' but that is a terrible cliche and I'd hate myself later.
1 comment:
even better. I particularly like the last sentence.
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