You have lost something. You look for it. You find a key in your pocketbook. A picture. Two books of matches from Baltimore alley restaurants. Your mind has slipped in ways that you cannot explain.
You stand at an intersection. Under your tongue lie words that you cannot remember. You can say them no longer. Try as you might you cannot move them back into your throat.
Behold: beyond tremors and angel hair you see him. He looks older. He carries a briefcase and smiles and smells of lemon.
—You look good. Babe.
—So do you.
He presses one of your nipples between his thumb and index finger. Then he removes his shoes and socks.