kansas

when you open the door, the bright day pushes past you, cajoled by a surprising wind. acknowledging your appearance on the porch, the wheat field bows repeatedly, like a chorus line at curtain call, or reception of japanese diplomats. but it's neither of those things. it's a wheat field on a windy day.

you are standing outside your house in kansas, a dishtowel in hand, looking down your driveway at the country lane that leads from town. you are waiting for the mailman. he might bring something, something that might interest you for half an hour. a letter from a far-off friend. the electric bill. or an entry to a contest which might involve some minutes of occupation, peeling gold seals from one card to reapply to another, pulling apart perforations and scratching off markers to reveal secret numbers beneath. a bulk-mailed invitation to subscribe to a magazine, "songwriter", or "tennis today". you have never written a song or stepped onto a tennis court. perhaps you should. Perhaps you would, if the mailman would come, if he would bring you an invitation from the world, a ticket out of stillness, of loneliness, out of here, where a golden field of wheat gives terse approval, nodding as you step back inside and close the door.

it's been days since the cat's come around. this is not the first time. he's stalking mice in the fields, or down at the neighbor's farm, yowling at a barncat in heat. he'll show up again. probably. he'll show up, scraped and cut from brawling, hungry and ungrateful. he has his own agenda. it's a business relationship; that's all.

is it time for the book of the month? is it a day to drive to town, to wheel the squeaking cart through the over-airconditioned supermarket aisles? is it time to buy more stamps at the postoffice? to visit the library where you will surf the internet looking at the airfare on flights you dream of taking?

at your house in the wheatfield, there is noone home, not even you. and yet you stand there just inside the door, devoid of cat and company, waiting for a golden ticket out.

maybe today?

and then you blink and rediscover the table of friends before you.

"let's split the tiramisu" says the girl next to you. "it's really good here. i've had it before."

a discussion of dessert occurs, hinting at guilt and laciviousness that no one will indulge. a cart appears, laden with pastry and gustatory treasures, each an invitation to delight. strawberry shortcake languishing in whipped creme so decadent you can imagine it spread on marilyn monroe's decolletege. chocolate gateaux, intricate layers spread with rasberry. mocha mousse. tiramisu, lady fingers giving the thumbs-up at its periphery. wistful compromises are struck amongst the girls, who waver between what they want and what they ought to do.

"i will have one of each," you tell the waiter, to the suprise and amusement of your friends. the thinnest girl laughs, somewhat uncomfortably.

"i will have one of each, and apple pie a la mode, and pecan pie, and a scoop of every ice cream flavor that you have, two scoops, in fact. and lots of spoons, enough for all my friends, and if they care to join us, the people at the next table, because they look nice."

the waiter pauses, determines that you are serious. he nods (a hint of a bow?) and disappears into the kitchen.

your best friend, across from you, says, "what's the deal?"

you smile. "it looks good," you say. "don't worry- I'm paying." (you mentally calculate the money in your debit card account. yes, it should be fine.)

later, a table of happy spoons cut through indulgances ordinarily forbidden, and somewhere in kansas, a mailman with his hand in a cavernous mailbox feels a cat brush against his leg.