The world is beautiful with its splendor of all shades of green and the chirping of black-robed birds groping about and sun and moderately cool air, the inconspicuous pedestrians, meek traffickers of tobacco and booze. After we make love she must get pretty again while I prepare dinner. We have it with candles and strings that sing us into a warm and mild night. Other times we go to the theater, opera, concert, café, end up in bars and into her dreams I tell her the night. What I have to offer to her is stolen from books she could read herself if so inclined. How, I think, can anyone stand the boredom of life undrunk? She bites my ear, but for how long can she play this game? Along my voice reading her novels she glides over posh and fine accents into dreamlands I hum to her and when…