The whippet rises from the couch, untangling its long thin body. It hops off and begins to run, a long legged lope, across the lawn. Such an elegant dog, a courtly dog, not a third world dog. Not a water dog like Yodi who licks his genitals in the center of a circle of women. The whippet is looking for someone.
Mexican women wash dishes and sweep the floor.
The wind is cold on my skin. I do not know my place. I do not even know if I am hot or cold. Everything is fiction. My life is fiction.