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第16部分（第2页）

give　me　some　new　free　clothes。　Love　you　both。　Ciao！？　she　added；　before　striding　away　in　her

five…inch　black　stilettos。

Mystery　blinked　her　huge；　tired　gray　eyes。　She　looked　like　she？d　been　up　all　night　cleaning

floors；　like　Cinderella。　？Your　poem　saved　my　life；？　she　confided　to　Dan　in　a　low；　husky　voice。　A

tall；　narrow　glass　of　something　bright　red　was　wedged　into　her　frail　hand。　？It？s　Campari；？　she　said

when　she　noticed　him　looking　at　it。　？Want　a　taste？？

Dan　never　drank　anything　that　wasn？t　caffeinated。　He　shook　his　head　no　and　tucked　his　black

notebook　under　his　arm。　Then　he　lit　a　Camel　and　took　a　long　drag。　There；　that　was　much　better。

Now　at　least　he？d　have　something　to　do；　even　if　he　couldn？t　think　of　anything　to　say。　？So；　are　you

a　poet；　too？？　he　asked。

Mystery　stuck　her　thumb　into　her　drink　and　then　licked　it　off。　The　corners　of　her　mouth　were

stained　red　with　Campari；　making　her　look　like　a　little　girl　who？d　just　eaten　a　cherry　Popsicle。　？I

write　poems　and　short　stories。　And　I？m　working　on　a　novel　about　cremation　and　premature　death。

Rusty　says　I？m　the　next　Sylvia　Plath；？　she　answered。　？What　about　you？？

Dan　sipped　his　drink。　He　wasn？t　sure　what　she　meant　by　premature　death。　Was　there　ever　a　right

time　to　die？　He　wondered　if　he　should　write　a　poem　about　it；　but　then　again；　he　didn？t　want　to

steal　Mystery？s　material。　？I？m　supposed　to　be　the　next　Keats。？

Mystery　dunked　her　thumb　into　her　drink　again　and　then　licked　it　off。　？What？s　your　favorite

verb？？

Dan　took　another　drag　off　his　cigarette　and　blew　smoke　into　the　crowded；　noisy　room。　He　wasn？t

sure　if　it　was　the　club；　or　the　music；　or　the　caffeine；　or　the　taurine；　but　he　felt　so　alive　andso　good

at　that　very　moment；　talking　about　words　with　this　girl　named　Mystery　whose　life　he　had　saved。

He　was　seriously　digging　it。

？Dying；　I　guess；？　he　answered；　finishing　his　drink　and　setting　the　empty　glass　down　on　the

floor。　？The　verbto　die　。？　He　knew　it　must　have　sounded　like　he　was　trying　to　impress　her。　After　all；

she　was　writing　a　book　about　premature　death　and　cremation。　But　it　was　the　truth。　Almost　all　of

his　poems　really　were　about　dying。　Dying　of　love；　dying　of　anger；　dying　of　boredom；　of　anxiety；

falling　asleep　and　never　waking　up。

Mystery　smiled。　？Me　too。？　Her　gray　eyes　and　long；　thin　face　were　starkly　beautiful；　but　her　front

teeth　were　crooked　and　yellow；　like　she？d　never　been　to　the　dentist　in　her　entire　life。　She　snagged

another　Red　Bull　cocktail　from　a　waiter？s　tray　and　handed　it　to　Dan。　？Rusty　says　poets　are　the

next　movie　stars。　One　day　we？ll　both　be　riding　around　in　limos　with　our　bodyguards。？　She　sighed

heavily。　？As　if　that　will　make　life　any　easier。？　She　raised　her　glass　and　clinked　it　against　his。　？To

poetry；？　she　announced　grimly。　Then　she　grabbed　the　back　of　Dan？s　head　and　pulled　him　toward

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