With his eyes closed, Buck randomly picked a book from his bookshelf. As he blindly opened it, he felt, between the thumb and third finger of his right hand, the talc-dry pages and for a moment, luxuriated in the nearly featureless tactile sensation of the pages’ dry paper, as if each were a small, bendable, desert.
He imagined that each page’s surface was covered in neat, black script, which he imagined would be, before opened eyes, instantly transformed into a welter of ideas and images and concepts... but for the moment, he continued simply to feel the blind sensation of the arid pages.
Just then, the phone rang, and as Buck opened his eyes, he saw that he held before him a small paperback, entitled The Interpretation of Dreams. He hadn’t read it. As he answered the phone--- his heartbeat elevated just a bit---and heard Jackie’s rich, sonorous voice say “What’s up, handsome?” He wondered if she ever had?
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