Alison stared into the mirror and combed her hair.  How
beautiful she was!  “I look awful,” she said.  I bent down and
tied my shoe and hit my head on the coffee table on the way up.
“Ouch,” I said.  “What did you say, honey?” she said.  “I said
we ought to buy a new couch,” I said.  “I thought we just bought
one,” she said.  “We could buy another one so we’d have a back-up
in case anything happens to this one,” I said.  She didn’t answer
me, but continued to brush her hair.  I stared down at my shoes
and said, “Something is so wrong there.”  “What did you say, honey?”
she said.  I said, “It will be wonderful to be there tonight.”
“Where’s that, honey?” she said.  “Wherever it is that we’re going,”
I said.  “We’re not going anywhere,” she said.  “I meant here.  It
will be wonderful to be here tonight,” I said.  “A little romantic
night at home,” she said.  What did she mean by “nomadic”?  A little
nomadic night at home.  There were times when I worried about
Alison.  She hovered right on the borderline, about to cross over into
her own private realm, where nothing she sees or hears corresponds
to anything in the known world.  I live with this fear daily.  My
shoes are on the wrong feet, or so it seems to me now.

 I sat on my couch and hummed a little tune.  I didn’t recog-
nize it, but, still, I continued to hum.  I was going into a
trance and felt dizzy.  I leapt up and said, “This is not a good
idea, boy.  Snap out of it.  You have responsibilities, places
to go, things to see, people to meet, worlds to conquer.”  Then
I fell to the floor and lay there with one eye open, twitching.
I had been attacked by a brutal imp.  I was having trouble moving
my limbs.  I said, “You’ll be sorry for this.”  A hand reached down
and pulled me up, a hand belonging to no one.  I got myself a
glass of water and drank it.  It started leaking out of me.  I
went and called the plumber.  “I’ve got leaks,” I said.  I was
hoping I could save the day, because I had great plans, things
I had always wanted to do, but never got done.  Something was
crawling up the wall.  It was a Six-spotted Green Tiger Beetle.
That must mean something.  Good fortune?  Death?  I grab the glass
and quickly capture him and throw him outside.  Too risky.  I
return to the couch and start to hum a little tune my mother used
to sing to me when I was a child about a boy and his cow.  And
so the afternoon passed into evening, and in the evening I sewed
a button on my shirt, and felt really good about that.