(from "Permission to Enter" by Zadie Smith, in the 7/30/12 New Yorker)
"...but still she didn't approach Frank, nor did he approach her, despite their keen awareness of each other. A poetic way of putting this would be to say, 'There was an inevitability about the road toward each other which encouraged meandering along the route.'"
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And from my head, all day Sunday, after seeing "Unfaithful" (Diane Lane getting dressed for meeting her soon-to-be lover):
At the start of our affair
her finger traced an outline
where a heart had been...
I like this terribly sad/yet profound testament-to-the-power-of-true-love movie a lot, and the above lines really have nothing to do with it (other than feeling Lane's anticipation while choosing a bra). And I couldn't get any more of the poem to come after that. Argggggh.
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