dok pričaš zriju jabuke...
rasterujem im oblake...
ispuni mi tri zelje i ispričaj mi san...
da ludujem, da zavodim i nikad da ne ostarim...
izmenjenu istinu mi ureži na dlan...
ti hoćeš da te zavodim, a ne znaš jezik magije,
ti hoćeš da te osvojim, al ne znaš da li znam..
ja hoću da te zagrlim i kažem tajnu najveću
i najlepšu od tajni koje želim da ti dam...

...nisi se probudila, zato nisi videla...
igrale su sene..
nek te dobri duhovi i kraljevski orlovi,
čuvaju od mene...

..u cik zore zviždi voz, njime odlazim u Oz, neću da se vratim...

For the first week of invisibility Tom did nothing but follow her around. There are perks to having your lover believe you're invisible. He watched the Perfectionist dress and undress. He wached what she wached on television when she tought he wasn't around-mainly game shows and reruns. He wached her separate the coloured laundry into shades. In ways, his invisibility let him be more intimate with her but safer at the same time, and he fell deeper in love with her.
...

Ambrose turned him over and Tom saw how his chest had released, come open like the hoos of a car. Ambrose raised Tom's chest, propping it open with a rib bone at a forty-five-degree angle. He started poking around in there.
'Think about your girlfriend,' Ambrose commanded.
'My wife,' Tom said.
'Whatever, just picture her face.'
Tom pictured the Perfectionist's face.
'Now picture her best feature,' Ambrose instructed.
Tom pictured the Perfectionist's nose. He felt Ambrose's hand on his heart. Tom took shallow breaths. Ambrose reached behind his heart. He squeezed from underneath and quick line of blood squirted up, hitting Ambrose in the face.
'That might be it,' Ambrose said, reaching to his back pocket, grabbing the rag and wiping off his face.
'What? What is it?'
'When's the last time you had this cleaned?'
'I've never had it cleaned.'
'Exactly,' Ambrose said. 'I'll need the Stewart for this.'
The Stewart was a long, unwieldy tool Ambrose rarely used and kept in the back of his truck. Leaving Tom naked on the kitchen table, Ambrose left the room.
Tom listened to the apartment door open and close. Ambrose was gone for fifteen minutes. Tom lay naked on the kitchen table. He craned his neck down and to the right and wachet his heart beating.
Ambrose returned carrying a long metal toolbox. He took out an instrument that was long and sharp and made of thin stainless steel. This was the Stewart. Ambrose used two hands to hold it.
'Take a deep breath,' Ambrose instructed. 'And think of the first time you kissed her.'
Tom pictured the horrible basement apartment he used to live in. The worst thing was the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Boot scuffs and cigarette burns covered it. No longer white, it was grey that always look dirty.
The Perfectionist couldn't stand it. One Wednesday, five days after their first official date, she showed up with two buckets of bright blue floor paint and two paint rollers.
'Great idea,' Tom said.
They set to painting the floor. They started where the carpet hit the linoleum. They worked backwards at a furious pace. They'd paint what was in front of them, then shuffle back a few feet and paint that. In no time at all their feet hit the back wall of the kitchen. They'd painted themselves into a corner. Tom looked up and the Perfectionist was smiling.
'What the hell do we do now?' Tom asked her.
The Perfectionist kissed him (perfectly).
Tom remembered this moment as he felt the instrument push down his aorta. The pain was unbelievably sharp. Tom opened his eyes. He craned his neck. He saw a tiny ghost coming out of his heart.
Tom recognized the ghost as Jessica Kenmore. Her head, then her chest, her hips and finally her legs squeezed out of his heart. She floated upwards, dissolwing just before she touched the ceiling.
Ambrose pushed the instrument deeper. The head of Sally Morgan apeared. Sally's chest, then her feet came clear. She floated up, dissolving just before reaching the ceiling.
Next came Nancy Wallenstine. Then Sara Livingston. Then Debbie Cook.
'Christ, how many do you have in there?' Ambrose called.
'There should be one more,' Tom told him.
Tom gripped the edge of the kitchen table. He clenched his teeth. Ambrose pushed the instrument deeper. The head of Jenny Remington popped out of his heart.
Jenny Remingtom pulled herself free. She floated over to Tom's head. She stared at him. She looked so sad. She continued staring at him in the eyes, than dissolved.
Tom closed his eyes- He took a deep, deep breath. He could feel the Stewart every time his heart beat.
'Well, that didn't work,' Ambrose said, pulling the Stewart out of Tom's heart.
'What?'
'Still broken. Good that you cleaned her out. You won't be getting those pains any more, but she's still broken.'
'Can't you fix it?'
'Nope. The whole thing's broken, and when she breaks like that, there's nothing anyone can do,' Ambrose said, wiping the Stewart clean with the cloth from his back pocket. 'Maybe it'll mend itself. Sometimes they do.'
Ambrose set the rib bone back into place. He held tho hood of Tom's chest with the tips of his fingerst and let it drop. Ambrose packed up his tools. He shook his head, didn't say a word, and left.

The Perfectionist has always hated vacuum salesmen. There's no reason, no traumatic episode in her past, no ex-lover or absent father who is one. She just doesn't like them.
'I don't want a vacuum,' the Perfectionist said.
'I'm not selling vacuums,' he answered. His voice was lyrical, calm and reassuring.
'What are you selling?' Perfectionist asked.
'I'm selling love,' he answered.
The Perfectionist leaned against door jamb. The smell of cigarettes came from her hair and her clothes. She backed out of the doorway and he followed her inside.
In the kitchen he set down his sample case. He tugged up his trouser legs as he sat. He crossed his right leg over his left, revealing argyle socks.
'What kind of love are we interested today?' he asked.
'What kinds do you have?'
'Well,' he said. He stood up. 'I've got the love you want, the love you think you want, the love you think you want but don't when you finally get it...'
'That must be very popular.'
'It is.'
'What else have you got?'
'I've got the love that's yours as long as you do what you're told, the love that worries it's not good enough, the love that worries it'll be found out, the love that fears being judged and found lacking, the love that's almost-but not quite-strong enough, the love that makes you feel they're better than you...'
'Stop.'
'What?'
'I don't whant any of those.'
'What kind do you want?'
'I want the kind I had with Tom.'
'And what kind was it?'
'It was true love,' Perfectionist said.
She locked eyes with the salesman. He swallowed. It made his eyes look sad.
'Than you'll need one of these,' he replied. His eyes didn't look sad any more. They sparkled. He dipped to his right, picked up his sample case, lifted it as high as he could and slammed it onto the kitchen table. He snapped te left clasp open. He snapped the right clasp open. He flipped open the lid, reached in and pulled out a vacuum.
'You are a vacuum salesman?' the Perfectionist hissed.
'You don't really believe true love exists outside one of these?' he asked.
...