Ersatz Girl
He climbed to the top of a double Decker bus headed into Kenilworth sitting two seats from the back, pressing his head against the glass and looking outside, holding Madame Bovary between his palms, thumbing the volume of her life story like he was hoping to release the charm of the book into the air; so contemplative and exhaling, and his eyes looked over his eyes in the window, thinking that everybody knew about the similes and tropes and metaphors that came out of every pore of the human body – the bus passed a tree which brushed up tightly against the window – reminding him of Ersatz Girl, her body in her clothes like a packed lunch, she could be told to forget all other critics because he was the one already interpreting her steamy pot-boiler (here two little white dots materialised on the window), to interpret her blood-on-snow, her creamy pale milky something, her massive hyperboles, as she wheezed like a broken down four-by-four in a country lane, lying back over a hedge row with her teeth at funny angles, making sounds like a carp gasping for love; she appeared to him like this, evanescent yet line-drawn, as if ‘Ersatz Girl’ were an inky villainess or something like the eternal feminine assigned to the promotion of Altoid mints.
13 Oct 2007 20:47
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Tags: Fiction Of Practice
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