Excerpt from Interesting Monsters

Dean came to the conclusion that Bob was not a rocket scientist. Bob took his time reading the menu with a concentration that disturbed our hero's sense of certainty. But that meant nothing, didn't it? Dean thought. There had to be more to Bob than his reading ability, social skills, conversational style. There had to be more to him than his body, his features, as singularly well-built and clean-cut as he was in his orange wool workshirt, jeans, and canvas high-tops. There had to be some kind of soul to him, and he thought souls were what he fell in love with, but what could reveal that to him, in the event deep conversation failed to happen, other than some kind of metaphysical x-ray vision?

Dinner conversation began with them talking shop—the people they worked with at the auction house, how the system could be improved—from the particular perspectives of their respective offices. Nothing new there. Then, in reference to Dean's question about hobbies, Bob called himself an artist for the second time.

"The whole thing is," Bob said, "to add a certain, I donÕt knowÉa certain thing to it. Like it's not just a doily, or a candle, or a toilet-paper cosy. It's like it's art. You know?"

"I think I do," Dean said. "Like alchemy."

"Yeah, like magic right? You'll see what I mean when you come up to my apartment," Bob said matter-of-factly.

Copyright © 2001 by Aldo Alvarez. All rights reserved.