She says August is a month of Sunday nights. She thinks of an electric fog of blue light in steamy living rooms all along the street. She says she hates the book that begins with the light like television. "Boy talk," she says, "typical Canadian sensibility. 'Gonna go down to the gay-raj, eh? Fix me up a spaceship...'" She is from Fort Erie, Ontario, at the mouth of the Niagara River across from Buffalo. She has the right, he supposes. She says 'cyberspace' as if it were the word 'clubhouse,' laughing at him. She thinks of searching for breezes in the dog days along a dimly lit street where there is blue light in steamy living rooms and outside the moon flowers spread so coolly they seem to be sighs.
Sometimes you see a sweaty man in a strap teeshirt fiddle with the dial, a can of Molson's blue in his hand, looking like a wrestler gone to seed.
You could never imagine a woman sleeping next to him. Moon flowers.
"Cyberspace," she laughs. It makes him feel panicky and foolish, though he knows she means to soothe him. "Cyberspace is a sweaty man in a teeshirt wrestling with a teevee dial with a beer in his hand like a remote control for dreams."
She has a book by a Canadian woman poet which is called Furious. He knows she loves him.
"I've been to cyberspace. No one sleeps there. It's all August and autumn rushing in and back to school."