I wanted a fuck and he wouldn’t give it to me because his wife was home sick with the baby and he was worried. They had vacationed in Cozumel and she had returned with a parasite which she now claimed ate through her brain. She was forgetting words and turns of phrase. We sat in my office and he played with his tie. He had brought me a book that made him think of me—Seneca’s piece on the brevity of life—and I cradled it to my chest like a great source whose energy sustained the office walls. (The mosquito thinks itself the center of the world, Nietzsche said.) He laughed about the men in suits down the hall and whispered about the guy whose wife had left him for a woman weeks before. I touched his fingers, our index fingers hooked, and he squeezed at my hand. He had to run and check on the wife, he said. Out the door he flew—his slacks, his jacket, his hair—and I noticed the daylight coming through the window as if it hadn’t existed a moment before. I thought of the rest of my day: the walk to the parking garage, the purchase of canned tomatoes at the store.