An entire conversation, over the better part of an hour, this time. I can’t remember a word, it all happened so quickly, and took such a long time. You said you thought you were a little sick of your usual spot, and that you wanted to give this place a try, and you asked me what was good there. Of course, I never ordered anything different. I found myself speaking to you, and you listened, holding me with your eyes, as I said things to you, ordinary enough things, and I was not voluble at all, but something inside me was going wild. It wanted to talk forever if only you would listen.

I never dream, but that night I dreamed I was driving through stillville, and sometimes flying along the ground without a car, more and more without a car, and watching as the houses and trees, street signs and silent corners, its dim blocks and vacant intersections, all faded into the gloom as I went by. It was like the planet was rolling out from under me in silence, disappearing without a struggle, vanishing sorrowfully. The sadness was so intense I sat up in bed, clutching my chest, gasping, and burst into tears.

I realized that I was going to say something to you the next time I saw you. It was as if a voice had said —

“It’s going to happen.”

I felt my hands turn to ice, and my temples began to pound.

“It’s going to happen.”

I was sitting in my living room, vacancy churning all around me, and I couldn’t sit still. Something grabbed my right hand and wrung it out hard—my left hand. I stared at my hands, the one kneading the other, and for a moment I thought I would burst into tears again. I stood and went to the window. I saw the street, everything in its accustomed place, and, over the roof of the house opposite, I could see the remoter lights of the main street shining up into the murk, like fixed and impassive stars. So then, I called on the stillness, and asked it to still you.