_Stand, arms akimbo, feet under your shoulders; breathe; look over the city in all its dun glory._ _Are you looking for anything out there?_ _What are you thinking about?_ _Why is this room so carpeted with hush?_ _When is he coming home?_ _Is he coming home?_ _There is a knock at the door._ _Enter OMSATIGO._ OMSATIGO: Get me a smoke, bitch. And a drink. And get one for yourself. I trust you’ve made yourself at home in my absence? YOU: Yes, sir. OMSATIGO: _[chuckles]_ You don’t have to call me sir. No one’s called me that since I lived in the sewer and kicked a bunch of guys’ asses for stealing my rat. YOU: Okay, sir. I mean—okay. OMSATIGO: This is a good drink _[clinks it]_ . You know, kid, you keep up the good work and I might just take you with me one of these nights. YOU: I’d like that very much. OMSATIGO: Well, we’ll see. We’ll see. _Go sit by him when he pats the couch. Go, enjoy your drink. Nobody’s going to stop you. The airconditioner kicks in, adding a sussurance to the hush. Where is the city now? It’s in every sidewalk block you walked to answer this man’s ad. It’s in the faraway airplane lights, nonstop from nostalgia. It’s in the rhythmical totality of all the traffic lights on all the_ _corners, blinking alien intelligence into the night’s thin canopy. It’s in the lurid curves of every ice cube melting in your glass. It’s in each whorl of your finger, magnifed, beyond the glass. It’s in the smoke, it’s in the smoke, it’s in the smoke in your mouth, in your lungs, between your ears, covering your resistance with its eery, sinful innocence. Wake up. He’s stretching back. The hairy mountain of his chest takes on a gentler slope. Invisible, miniature mountain-climbers breathe musky sighs of relief._ _You stare at his crotch._ _It stares back._