The bullet only grazed me. I was up all night, yowling and licking the soft wound. I am at a party high over New York. It's George Plimpton's house. He says he is writing a book about what it is like, just for a day, to impersonate a human being.
Someone says something, four score of eyebrows arch.
Across a battery of stemware I spot her. Escape, escape, and there is no escape. Then I remembered. Closing my eyes I begin my descent. She chases me across the Yukon carrying a sling of baby sons in one hand, a foreclosed mortgage in the other.