Downstairs, people are dancing but with the coming of the dawn there is also a calculated sense of desperation as everyone makes last minute arrrangements to ensure that they do not go home alone. Upstairs, someone screams, I don't remember who. I was being engaged in a conversation that demanded that I consider the question of mortality. You must remember, she told me, that the circumstances of your rejection are such that you will never know how history came upon you. They lift the inert body from the bath and place it on the bed.
People rush forward to catch a glimpse of the very significant iconographic pose.
And what lies ahead of us in terms of our long-term security, she continued, is less a matter of speculation than an investment in the uncertainty of signs. It is announced with a surprising lack of presentation, that a friend of mine was killed while bathing. I turn away from her, disengaging our bodies from the tight embrace we had encouraged. A wave of uncertainty sweeps over me, causing me to close my eyes and for a moment I am unsure if it was really I who was a witness to all this. I sit back in the couch and pull out the photograph, its details now further obscured.