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I say she’s got a ways to go yet, that girl, just a blossom yet herself, still bashful ’round the bees. I say no way a girl can tease like that who’s been bit into once or twice.
So I come ’round with just a little bit of honey, just a little, little lick, just enough to catch her eye, creamed peach honey, just the thing to bring her by.
And I know she’ll let me tell her how the peaches lost their way how they fell out of a wagon on a sweaty summer’s day, how the buzz got all around that there was sugar to be had, and the bees came singing, and the bees came glad. They sucked—she’ll blush—I’ll tell her, they sucked that fruit right dry, ’till it all got tangled up in the heady humming hive. they made it into honey and they fed it to their queen, and she shivered with the sweet, and she licked the platter clean, and she dreamed of sunny meadows and she dreamed of soft ice cream—
I’ll see her lick her lips, and I’ll see her bite a frown, and I’ll see how she’ll hesitate, look from me up to the town and back, and she’ll swallow, and she’ll say “can I try?” and I’ll offer like a gentleman, won’t even hold her eye.
Because she’ll have to close them, see. She’ll have to moan a bit. and it’s when she isn’t looking when she’s sighing fit to cry, that I’ll lick the loving from her, that I’ll taste the peaches on her that I’ll drink the honey from her suck the sweet of her surprise.

THE AXIOM OF CHOICE

David W. Goldman

The incident in the story’s penultimate scene comes from something I stumbled upon several years ago—a message from a defunct e-mail discussion list that had been copied to a website (by now, also defunct).

In his 1996 message, Mike Beauchamp described a concert he’d just attended at the Brantford (Ontario) Folk Club. During one song introduction, musician Michael Doyle related an anecdote about reassuring an earlier listener that travelers always come back. Someone a few rows behind Beauchamp commented, “Sometimes they don’t come back.” Sitting in that section was Ariel Rogers, widow of legendary Canadian singer/songwriter Stan Rogers—victim of a 1983 airplane disaster.

“I think,” Beauchamp wrote, “there is a song in there somewhere to be written.”

301

The guy mentions a town that means nothing to you, but the remark topples Paul into laughter. Into his big, rumbling belly laugh, the one so deep and generous that during a gig it never fails to convince the audience that they’re all in on the joke with you and him.

The three of you have lingered outside the darkened club an hour beyond the show’s end. Your palms rest atop your guitar case, which stands vertical before you on the cracked sidewalk. Standing not quite as vertical, Paul steadies himself by pressing a hand against the club’s brick wall, just below a photocopied poster bearing an image of his face looking very serious. (Dynamic singer-songwriter Paul Muroni! says the poster. Your name appears lower down, in smaller type.) One corner of the poster has come loose. It flips back and forth in the unseasonably warm gusts that blow down the narrow street.

“But really,” says the guy, some old friend of Paul’s whose name you’ve already forgotten, “why should you two spend tomorrow driving way up the coast for one damn gig, and then all the way back the next day? I’ll fly you there tonight in my Cessna—tomorrow you can sleep in as long as you like.” His arms sweep broad arcs when he speaks, the streetlamp across the road glinting off the near-empty bottle in his grip.

Paul rubs the back of his hand against his forehead, the way he always does when he’s tired. You’re both tired, three weeks into a tour of what seem like the smallest clubs in the most out-of-the-way towns along the twistiest roads in New England.

Paul looks at you, his eyes a bit blurry. “What do you think?” There’s a blur to his voice, too. “I’m in no condition for decisions.”

You’re not sure that your qualifications for decision making are any better than his, given not only your sleep deprivation, but also the beers during the gig and the fifth of Scotch that the three of you have been passing around since.

If you ask Paul’s friend to let you both spend the night here in town on the floor of his apartment, go to section 304.

If the thought of sleeping in until noon is too tempting to pass up, go to section 307.

304

This would be a different story.

Go to section 307.

307

The third time the little plane plummets and steadies, its propeller’s buzz nearly lost beyond the pounding of rain on the cold aluminum hull, you turn to Paul.

“You know, maybe this wasn’t the best decision.”

But Paul’s snores continue uninterrupted.

Usually you’re the one who can sleep anywhere, anytime. Tonight, though, Paul has achieved a blend of exhaustion and inebriation that’s vaulted him into a league beyond even your abilities.

“Hey,” shouts Paul’s friend, twisting around from the pilot seat, his head a silhouette in the dim glow of the control panel. “You ever used a parachute?”

For an instant you’re aware of nothing but your own heartbeat.

Then the friend cackles. “Just kidding! Flown through worse than this, dozens of times. You two just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

You peer out the dark porthole. The only scenery is the shivering wing above, illuminated ghost-like in the fan of the plane’s lights.

The plane bounces again. You picture aerial potholes.

If you unstrap yourself to check on your guitar in the back of the cabin, go to section 310.

If you pound on the pilot’s seat and demand that he turn the plane around, go to section 312.

310

Go to section 324.

312

Go to section 324.

324

Ice-cold water splashes your face.

If you keep your eyes shut tight and try to ignore the water, go to section 325.

If you’re confused about where you are and how you got here, go to section 326.

325

Ice-cold water splashes your face. You’re terribly cold, except for your arms. You can’t feel your arms.

If you wonder why you’re so cold, go to section 327.

If you wonder what’s wrong with your arms, go to section 328.

326

This is not the choice you make.

So this section doesn’t really need to be here. If it were omitted, its absence wouldn’t affect your story.

Go to section 325.

328

Ice-cold water splashes your face. You open your eyes to blackness.

You’re floating in freezing, heaving water. You spit out a mouthful of brine as you realize that your numb arms are wrapped around something. Whatever it is, it’s the only thing keeping you afloat.