(#66a)

HE FOUND HIS MOTHER'S LIPSTICK where she had forgotten it in the bathroom. A tiny, very thin line drawn on the wall. Another tiny line. A less tiny line. A medium line. A fairly long line. A marvelously long long, long line. The lipstick never leaving the wallpaper, never skipping, smooth as the surface of water, all the way down the hallway as far as he could walk to the end. Then he drew circles. His arm windmilled around and around, around performing cartwheels on the wall. It was being bad, he was bad. It happened in spite of him. His fingers gripped the lipstick, his arm swept up and down and around, it was pleased with itself. His bare feet almost danced, his toes curled against the soft, smooth wood of the floor. His hand and his arm and his feet right down to his toes refused to stop. When Mommy comes home, he said to himself, it will be bad then. It is bad I am bad, I am very bad, very very very very bad bad bad bad. It was a song singing through his whole body. His fingertips were singing. His arm, his feet, right down to his toetips, were singing.