It's not your particular story that's so interesting, although maybe it is, actually it is, it is everything (the creature breathed deeply), but what I was going to say is, what's interesting is the molten dynamo of the way nobody can ever know exactly what goes on inside your story. No one can ever know any given instant of your life. The green of that bench on the front porch. The way that one particular speck of paint chipped off, on that one particular summer afternoon, after two and a half beers, when he hadn't come home yet and you and the baby, the baby--no one knows what goes on in that world, either--were swinging, listening to the drone of a fly, and wondering about something--something--nor I, nor anyone, will ever know exactly what. The creature looked up at me with an expression I couldn't understand. It had something to do with consternation, something to do with something called love, and it was confused and confusing. But it was open. Just for that moment, it was wide open. I almost backed away.