The business of lies requires work and I work best in my underwear. At my desk, pen in hand, lines below me, I think, reflect, today I’m going to fall in love, I say, and then outside the window I see a young woman sitting in the grass with a baby, no baby, sitting in the grass alone. She’s beautiful, stunning, no, average-looking, belle of the ball or maybe village, pretty, nothing to scoff at, but women are always more beautiful in the grass with or without a baby, I think, thought, have always thought, believe this is why I’m so miserable.

But wait a minute, she sees me, she’s pointing to me, “Me?” I ask. “Yes, you,” she nods, beckons for me to come down and join her, I put on pants, come down, join her. “I saw you,” she says, “seeing me,” or else she doesn’t say anything. “Hi,” I say, and she doesn’t say anything. She’s lying down and reaches up for my hand, my hand still holding the pen, the pen marks her hand and she pulls away. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you were someone else.”

No, that’s wrong, didn’t really happen. She never saw me looking at her from the window. I remain in my room. I’m a eunuch, by which I mean I have no balls. No, not really, that’s just what I call myself on account of my low self-esteem. I’m still here, two days later, and the woman who was never there is gone.