I cannot elude the freckles and her cheekbones or deny the pale eloquence of her face;—her—girl without whom I am from this internecine conversation, this hotel restaurant view of Michigan Avenue. my vision descends into the forged metallic horizon of her necklace, and then I am an image reflected in the calm penetrating surface of her retina. I am wandering through the crimson tresses of her Irish hair; to embrace the eyes the glimmering false colored eyes bearing the unendurable portrait of an angel—she wears whatever she wears a summer dress purchased in a painfully sophisticated fashion at Saks, as every moment the sculpture of her breasts gives meaning to the seductive vacuity of the light;—and I contrive one final exit into the glowing dusk of her fake blue contact lenses....