I work until 4am and get up at the same time everyone else does. By mid-afternoon I’m falling over sideways. Slumped on our spongy outdoor sofa and I don’t even realize I’m asleep until I wake up.

In my hunger, I am a machine with its heart torn out. I am negative space–all stomach, no brain. I cook a can of thick, dull soup. Eat it straight from the pot. Bachelor’s rights.

Stephen and Geoffrey are playing badminton on the backyard grass. They banter back and forth in fake French accents.

“Ahh you are too short, little man!”

“Now see what I have done to you!”

Lately food seems to stick in my throat unless it is prepared by someone else. Am I a horrible cook or is it psychological?

I know women who can’t have orgasms from solo masturbation–the satisfaction lies in being served. Thank god I live across from the diner.

“Don’t touch me! It is too hot to fuck!”

“Ahh, c’est dans l’arbre.”

A bush swallows the shuttlecock. Rackets whack at the shrub. Then Stephen and Geoffrey go back inside to work on some music. I sit and digest.

A neighbour comes up the driveway. “How you doing! Nice quiet day eh.”

“Yes!” I say. “It’s quite lovely.”

I surprise myself with the energy of my reply. Of course the real message of my cheerfulness is “Don’t fuckin’ bug me.”