moleslog04222007

Gather this: today Branley handed me a document:

"Have a look."

Fishkill at SONGS -San Olfactory Nuclear Generating Station. But fish die; no one doubted that. Impingement, I'm to call that, as in "Where I come from, that's fish impingement, pardner." Ecorp found they had to clean the grill that filters the water leaving the plants -- upon which many hundredpounds of fish had impinge themselves.

Edna cackles. Branley stares, intently, patient. If I deny interest, do I tip him?

"Oh, those fishies went and impinged themselves on us." Yes, Edna.

You like those? I've seen one of those. "Hey, look both ways and don't impinge yourselves on any cars."

I manage a laugh: "Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"Oh, I have. My husband works for McDonnell Douglass. Half the freaking world impinges themselves on Douglass. He can't even talk to me there's so much impingement going on. I ask him. I used to ask."

"So you're the spy!" (Oh, these interludes!)

"I didn't need his secrets, but there you go. No. He lays there, lays in bed sometimes. He stares at the ceiling and his mouth works. I'm his wife; I'm not supposed to ask? And he says, 'No, office stuff.'"

"Could be."

"Oh, he's an engineer. They talk -- kill ratios, things like that. Then he goes silent. He looks at me like he's ashamed or angry cause I'm there. I shouldn't ask, but it isn't nice. It took awhile."

Branley holds holds my gaze: enough.

Branley seems awfully clean-cut. He's

I can't tell you. He's complicit. Or he's baiting me.

He's a kid. He's female. I'm changing everything, and not just the names. SHe's 6'2", purple, a bone in his and/or her nose. But headed into college next year or week. I'll say that; enough of them were or do. Dads pay the way, apparently, Europe this summer, talks about Paris.

What should I see Whatever's ahead. Where should I eat Where anyone buys.
Streetlights dapple peach off the Seine before dawn. The ground chills then, so you'd might as well. But see the Tour in the day when the wind's down.
Les bleus run you off of the Champs d'Elysees, but by the Tuileries you can doze while the ground's warm. Le Boubourg's the best, even warm when the snow falls, but it closes at night, so check the grates on the metrostops before the first frost. They leave a few broken for charity.

But yes, at the Picasso, visit the goat. There's a lady in clay you could say hello to at Museé Rodin, right before you leave. Reddish clay, with her eyes are hollowed out, but brown. Brown eyes, and brown hair. (Just like Kathy Foster, but you don't know her.) And look.

He holds out the paper: "I won't need it until one; have a look."

Oh.