Greyhound Suggestion.

Sam, his teeth scratchy yellow, leaning dangerously away from the table, on a chair stood on two legs, passes the smoke jar and says, “diamonds, dear Sidney, may well be a girl’s best…” He holds up one hand, clenched. Then the other. He gathers eyes. He opens the first fist and blows into his palm. Someone gasps. I’m not sure what I saw. I saw diamonds. Or ash. I saw some sort of nonsense magic in the air, just briefly. I shivered. Before another briefly, Sam opens up his other, throws it out, toward the door. He speaks in a voice pitched high. “Butter! Door!” Eyes flee across the room and I follow. Maybe a dog, a dark dog. Maybe a greyhound suggestion, a mutty smudge. But there was something and it left the room. Maybe I saw. I don’t know. It was dark. It was something, or nothing, maybe. I was stoned.

“Nothing out of the ordinary to see here, folks,” says Sam. He flexes the word or-di-na-ry. Someone giggles. Sounds like Sally. I thought she’d gone, but she’s just over there, dozing and itching, akimbo on the floor, in the doorway to the kitchen. She giggles like silver dollars, makes me shiver and shine. Ha, ha. Haw. Ha. It’s a complicated giggle, made more so than usual.

I look again to the door and think about the dog or the dog that I thought, and my face must be ploughed because Sam leans further over. “you’ll see it when you believe,” he says. The legs slide away and he tumbles with much drama to the floor. Someone giggles.

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