_HIM and ME, trestle-worn and travel-dusted, arrive at a carnival-coloured terminal (which, in place of one of the usual leering advertisements, has high up on the homely stone wall_ _A window to the outside world_ _from which strange sounds roil, and smoke escapes) and decide to unroll thin, resilient bedrolls, lean against a cinder wall or each other’s backpacks if no wall obtains, maybe smoke a cigarette, relax a while, and talk._ HIM: So, you wanna be at my coming-out party? ME: When is it? HIM: When are you free? ME: Awww . . . . _They do not at this moment embrace. This is important. To do so would be to desecrate and possibly render the spider web of their fractally evolving relationship._ So who else is going to be there? HIM: Well, I was hoping you could help me make a list. ME: All right. Well, let me think a second. There’s HER. HIM: Right. Let’s see what she says. _Enter HER._ HER: