On Thursday, I take a train to a town with a gas station and one stoplight. Wear a black coat and dream all night about wolves skirting the parking lots. My hope is a single bright balloon caught in January trees, a fakery, a delightful amnesia. Needless to say, you’ll do what I want because of the lingerie and possibly because I can fit an entire apple in my mouth without gagging. Still, I cry a lot, on buses, on airplanes. It takes so little energy it’s almost like Stockholm syndrome. All the houses are full of daughters, all the daughters full of milk and tissue paper, of 7th grade slumber parties. I fall in love with them too easily, with your wife in her tiny box. I am so dangerous, even the wallpaper hates me. The gas station attendant eyes my pockets suspiciously. Everything I say sounds like candy hearts, all sugar and pink pastels. This is the worst part of the game where I want and want and want. I play this part so sweetly you practically forget my teeth. Something keeps moving around my ankles like a cat, or possibly a small fox.