“So it’s not for publication?”
“Not that version, no. But for you, sweetheart: bedtime reading, any time.”
So what now follows comes from a later reconsideration. As a preamble that night, he scribbled, “The evening, the night so perfect. I want to get it down just right.” “Just right” meant fifty detailed pages. So what follows is—contrary to appearances—a concise summary.
He recorded how they unwound their hands from each other’s waists and adjourned down that windy hallway. They sat in a kind of sheeted covey. The sheets divided the man’s digs into numerous crannies; the eccentric arrangement offered a universe of tiny suggestive possibilities, a new surprise around every corner. To the sheets Gavin had fastened post cards or magazine images of Missouri in this, his latest temporary
