Awake to a male voice outside screaming bitch.  Nothing personal—clipped and hoarse,

it courses down the street.  Semi-dressed from last night—stockings—slip mangled with sleep.  Mouth brittle from too much wine.  The disentangled lover, from Public Relations, now back in Oro Valley giving orders to his wife.  Not totally alone.  At the foot growling on automatic the large black and brown Airedale; his brain fills with a single thought:  Out!

Downstairs toward the arroyo.  Take out a plastic bag from a purse stuffed with transient objects—lipsticks whose fruit-evoking colors bore you, orphaned bits of gum.  Clean up after your best friend.  The beast Henry has the same name as the lover.  It’s nice to have a lover whose name years later you won’t forget.  It’s nice to have a lover who sleeps with only you and his wife.  By now your brain has focused on Your Job.  Guide Henry back.  You’ll go up to Public Relations today.  Plan what’s nice enough to wear for work.