It’s probably the prettiest day we’ve had all year. The sun is streaming through my patio doors and the sky is wearing light blue, dotted with really diaphanous cloud diamonds. But I sit in a dark fog inside. I had shamefully confessed to my professor earlier this morning that I was “catching it” with my book report on Leah Price’s The Anthology and the Rise of the Novel. I had been struggling with the book for days, without a break through. I complained that the book is dense and the sentence structure difficult. To add insult to injury, some of the terms are not even in the dictionary, especially the French ones. “Whine, whine, whine.” I’m still sighing, as I look up. I see her, clear as day. It has to be, Clarissa.
She just floats into the room through the patio doors wearing a bright yellow silk gown and a bright smile. She settles serenely into a seat next to me like the sunlight. Startled, I say, “Where did you come from? I thought I was done with your author, Richardson. I finished Pamela.”
“Yes, but you didn’t even think about me. I am his best heroine. Leah writes about me,” She says.
“Yeah…. Like Leah writes about a gazzillion characters and a gazzillion authors and a gazzillion forms of writing. That’s my problem. What am I supposed to do with all of this? I only have so much time and I have many more deadlines,” I still whine.
“Look,” Clarissa, says. “It’s a beautiful day. It’s a clear day. Let’s go for a ride.”