The end of the world looks like a girl, maybe seventeen, maybe nineteen, maybe he shouldn’t ask. Her lips make him think of Eartha Kitt.
“Is your name Eartha?” he asks.
“No,” she says.
He flips papers, a little confused. “Okay,” he says, “you came with a monologue prepared, right?”
“From Eliot,” she says, and puts her hands behind her:
“Verdigris, peyote dreams,
India and rhyme
Carry claret honey trees
Close your eyes and swallow sand–“
“That’s not Eliot,” he interrupts.
“It isn’t,” says the end of the world, “is it,” and now it’s her turn to look confused.