FOUR.

    I hesitate too much. Sometimes it seems like I'm almost there. Sometimes I don't mind the uncertainty that envelops me. But tonight I wish I was quite sure, I wish I was confident about where I'm going and what I will do. What I would do if I could. I will grow strong thinking of it; I love beauty more than anything else in this world.

    In the grocery on Sunset Blvd I fawn over the gleaming pyramids of fruit, glad to be air conditioned and surrounded by bright mangoes and papaya. I pick four perfect nectarines, unripe and crisp, and walk with them to the checkout stand.

    "Paper or plastic?" the woman behind the counter asks.

    "Oh, no," I say, "I don't need a bag."

    I fumble with my coin purse; I don't notice the bag-boy placing my four perfect nectarines into a plastic bag.

    "No," the woman says, "She doesn't want a bag."

    "It’s okay," I say quickly. "That's fine."

    The boy shrugs and turns the bag over, releasing the four perfect nectarines, tumbling across the counter, gleaming like four comets, perilously to the edge, our hands reaching out to stop them, to prevent a bruise, but the nectarines roll so suddenly and transform into four perfect butterflies, which circumambulate to the rafters of the market. Oh, oh, I say, reaching up to touch the sky.

    "I should have gone to magic school," the boy says, handing me my four perfect nectarines. I smile. I thank him. I walk out the door.