We're not that different, you and I. Controlled the way we are by the tastes that cross our lips, the scents that catch our noses. We howl and bark when the people we love are taken away. We're overcome by the simplest of needs. We eat our food too fast. And we always pull on our leashes. Because, well...fuck you is why.

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There is a fountain in the hotel. Sometimes I sit on the stone ledge and toss pennies into it. And I think that if I believed in wishes, I'd make one. But mainly I just like the action of tossing the pennies and watching the water ripple as each one hits the surface and sinks. The little plunk, plunk, plunk of it. The way I can cause this series of events to unfold. And the slight variations from one throw to the next. The hopeful anticipation it brings: that this time I will see something different.

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In the other room, Monica is naked on the bed. When I lean close to the mirror, I can see her in it. She is lying on her back and Honey is beside her in a curl. She pets her with one hand. Her other hand is folded over her stomach. She says: "I don't think you enjoy fucking me."

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Aside from the way he looks, everything else I know about him is a product of my imagination: He's smart, but he doesn't talk unless he has something to say. His humor is understated, like his strength. He loves the people in his life to the point that it hurts.

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The thing is, even when it's right in front of you, sometimes it's not entirely clear what it is you're dealing with. People surprise you. Characters surprise you. And fetching papers doesn't always bring the results you want.

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It's in these early hours that both Mind and Body are a little on edge. Scared and mistrustful when it comes to familiar things. The floor fan. The light switch. The bathroom sink. Silent things seem suspiciously animate. Quiet things seem downright rowdy. And loud things seem...goddamned ferocious.

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My dad bought me a pair of red boxing gloves when I was seven. I would put them on and stand on my bed and pretend I was somebody who would kick somebody's ass. Mostly I was not somebody who would kick somebody's ass. I'm still not. But sometimes I hurt people close to me by accident. I once gave my best friend a black eye with an Atari gaming apparatus. Years later, at my wedding, I got the same friend to put his hand on a scalding hot snifter full of Sambuca. He's still got the scar today. But here's the thing: I stuck my hand on a burning snifter that night, too. Because, you want to know a secret, (which really isn't so much a secret)? I'm best when I'm hurting myself. Pain's always sweetest when it's self-inflicted. And you do it by being careless. Or irrational. Or both. And sometimes there are innocent casualties caught in the crossfire. What I'm trying to say is, if I hurt you, it's not intended. It's just because you were standing too close. Knowing me has consequences.

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I've been washing clothes for a woman that used to wash mine. And I've been helping her put them on right after she comes out of the bathroom all inside out. And it makes me remember one of her favorite stories to tell used to be about the time I put my rain boots on by myself at daycare. And how I came stomping out to the car all proud and smiling and with the boots on the wrong feet. And how when I got into the car, I said to her, Mom, I put my boots on by myself. And how she said, I see that. She knew I fucked it up. But she never said anything. It probably wasn't the first time she did that. It definitely wasn't the last. It's good to have people you can make mistakes in front of.

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Three months to the day after my mom died from complications involving lymphoma in her brain, my dad called me to tell me he had cancer in his throat. The prognosis was good for a recovery, he said. But he was going to need to have surgery to have it removed, followed by six to seven weeks radiation. I said, Six to seven weeks is a lot of radiation. He said, Sound familiar? I laughed.

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