By Prospero Dae
Las Vegas. Metropolis in the desert. Amid a dreary din, Gale’s sheeny, nut-brown hair, just coiffed, struggles to stay put in the wretched wind, whereas Windham, her coeval and erstwhile chauffeur—but that’s another story—keeps getting motes of heaven knows what in his eyes. Recrudescent sweat covers his forehead. His hand revolts because of an icky feeling and reproaches itself for making inadvertent moves. She laughs nervously. Was Vegas the right place? Even the documents are flitting, fidgeting, wanting out. A pantomime of pure rationality intrudes and the couple decides to move away from the frenetic fan.