Tomorrow, the woman is wondering when Mayakovsky would arrive; the anticipation has burned up her day.
He is not at the ornamental pond, where the city is held back and made small by the detachment.
She has nowhere else to look. She sits by the more vernacular, less decorated area of the gardens, swings, where children can be catapulted back into the city.
With a practised flick of ash, Mayakovsky:
—Give me your character so I can reference it futurely, securely and justifiably.
He has suddenly sprung out of nowhere, but she knows he must have sneaked up on her using the rhododendrons for cover.
—My character is that I dedicate myself to controlling what I can control, and conversely being equable towards what I cannot control, replies the woman.
After forty-five seconds Mayakovsky decides he has to continue:
—Am I supposed to believe that?
—Up to you, says the woman.
—Clever… I get clever.
Referring specifically to the woman’s personality, and he sniffs at the air,
Heavy with industrial emanations,
Pipes pumping out benzenoids and dioxins,
Often, the ne’er-do-well, or class warrior, feels it sophisticated to be regarded as toxic. Even though they are not ever of the general atmosphere.
—If I asked you to be a different character, you could, though, do that for me?
—You’re still on about this issue with breaking the shackles of imposed thought, aren’t you, says the woman.