What if, Oh dear, oh my, the lamb was perfectly pink, cuisine and waiter, perfectly French, you, blushingly flirtatious? What if on the Victorian bed we had lain side by side fully clothed shaping ourselves into constellations, Cassiopeia, the vain queen, Aquarius, the water bearer, and after a long time you had lifted your body onto mine and I had placed my hand under your gray-blue sheening shirt without unbuttoning it, and my hand was surprised to find long downy hair on your lower back? What if I imagined it to be strawberry blonde? What if I were with you only for the sake of joy?

What if you'd written, I'm not ready for a relationship. It saddens me to think of distinguishing the spark we ignited. What if I loved the idea of distinguishing instead of extinguishing our spark? What if while my mind said, Don't call, text, email, or snail mail, every layer of my lusty heart countered, Find his cottage, (he told you its name, you just have to remember) enter his always-unlocked door, and steal—his hands, his pelvis, his earlobes, his mouth, his tongue, his back, and its downy hair, bring your booty back to your bedroom, unscrew your opaque blue glass jar of coconut oil, and use his hands to smooth the nutty oil onto your body. What if you call while I am doing so and say you seem to be missing several parts of yourself? What if I say, I am also?