When I get home, I think about the object I chose for my enjoyment, even though the battery has been dead for a while; I haven't even used it for three days since I bought it. Sexuality and self-exploration are rituals I don't want to let fall into decline.

The wretch keeps telling me the same thing. He walks down the street with his two hands empty, busying himself with other people's chores. The words fall from his mouth. My chest: two fractions of anxiety. I laugh, needing to snuggle up in a plush blanket.