Before you can say it, you realize she's
right. You throw down your axe and take her rough,
callused hand. With dizzying speed, she pulls you through
the twisting halls, up stairs and escalators, past scenes
of atrocities committed on and by mutents, hydras, and a
deadly Medusa. 18 months later, you're at a celebratory
dinner. Her first book of essays has just found a
publisher. Your distracted glance falls on a bus ad out
the window, an airbrushed painting of Mount Olympus
overrun by snakes and snake-creatures, in the foreground
of which a beaming child is biting into an ice cream
sandwich. "What is an ice cream sandwich?" you almost ask,
but she's gone--stepped away to "use" the restroom. You
stare at the cubes swirling in your drink and wonder:
"What if?"
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