Paul wakes up in the field beside his donkey. He had
dreamed of a dogfish chasing tiny angels on a pinhead.
His elementary school teacher poking him with a ruler,
asking him questions. Demanding answers. Who would
knock a man off his donkey and not take his clothes or
his boots? God’s pinky, his tiny hammer of reason bangs
at Paul’s mind. Dancing will bring Paul closer to the
good. He rents a car and drives it to a studio. A
burning raindrop greets him at the door. We’re glad to
see you, a raindrop says. You’re never too old to
start dancing. Paul buys a flesh-colored leotard at a
discount price. Several women snicker that he looks like
the fatophobic poster child in it. The instructor has
him partner with Suzy, a thin girl. He tries to move his
arms in big circles to match Suzy but his leotard is too
tight. Every time he circles his arms above his head he
gives himself a wedgie. Students giggle behind him. He says
that he has to go to the bathroom. After you finish the
exercise, the instructor says. No pretend you’re like
the thawing snow, not slush, and a ray of light is
melting ice around. Sit down and watch Suzy. Suzy’s
pelvis arches gracefully in front of his face. There is
goodness in this cold. God must be all scintillation,
someone whose paradise is his paradise.