Emma Lee has been cheating on Elvis. The last few weeks she’s been dreaming about another, a man in a white linen suit. He’s lanky and wrinkled, casual and always happy to see her. Each night, she tries to quell her nervous, assuage the butterflies with a chant of “down, buddy, down.” He’s always coming towards her with a smile and a calloused hand stuck out, treading across wide, old hardwood floors in nice shoes. She sense they are in a downtown loft, but the walls are different each time, as are the chairs–wicker one day, Knoll the next. He’s not with his guitar and she not with her resume; theirs is an exchange of mutual interest and quiet excitement.
Today, she got a postcard from Elvis in Hawaii and the news that the man in the white linen suit would not be hers. The flip, the flop, she is back to the familiar territory of square one.
Elvis welcomes her back with open arms, and puts her to bed. Falling asleep, she wonders what will happen tomorrow.
