There was a guy, an odd guy, a little older and hairier than I, with big glasses. He lived in a thirties-era stone house with a big porch. His neighborhood was old, citified, secretive, and slightly curved. Very homey streetlights and porches, mist, that sort of thing. I was visiting him. Our bond was tentative but growing stronger. He was very particular about his things, his private rituals. Anyone that new him at all knew not to move things or put things out of order in any way, or risk his dramatic annoyance. His wife was thin, a tad shrewish but also birdlike. She had glossy short black hair. She made some brownies and some other delectable treat. It was really very good. She got offended when we didn't eat all of it, and she let us know about it. I said, well I didn't know we were supposed to eat all of it, and also, could I take a piece home to my wife? She was mostly mollified. The odd guy had a few macintoshes, one of which I was looking at on their dining room table. It was a very old one-piece mac, like a II or a Plus or something. The black-on-white was very sharp, and I was admiring the computer while the guy was in another room getting a bath ready. I was starting to wonder if we were going to take a bath together, and starting to imagine if I would like it if he touched me intimately. The notion seemed strange, a little off-putting, and weirdly appealing. Throughout, there was the feeling of being almost all the way in on a secret, in the presence of intelligence and quiet subversiveness. The sunlight filtering in was wan but wistfully cheerful. Even the dust had eyes.