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I'm lying on the bed when Tano comes home. Lying on the deep red satin in
a way that's supposed to look casual to Tano but really, it's staged. The brown
tights are a surreptitious purchase that I thought might feel nice under his
fingers. He walks in the door, into the living room, into the bedroom, into the space between my legs at the edge of the bed. He bends over me and says Hello into my ear while his whiskers graze my neck, and then he curls up next to me, which is behind me by the time he turns me onto my side. "I had an amazing day at work," I tell him. "The designer worked on my Web page, and I worked on my Web page, and Ingram paid us twenty dollars an hour." Tano kisses me. He says he talked to the people publishing the Japanese translation of Burn Cycle. He is learning HyperCard. He needs a faster computer. He has diarrhea. He finished his Robbe-Grillet book. He vacuumed two nights ago, did I notice. He has a neck ache. He got email from MOMA. He needs quarters for laundry, do I have some. He needs to buy vegetables. All of his are rotten.
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