I’m ribald, I tell her and she pours her drink on my head and says, Two letters off, and I call my Renaissance lit teacher and he has a lark.

She asks for salt. Soon the chef is at the table bellowing about art. She sips her wine. It’s all going to come out my butt later, she says.

I was having some difficulty catching my breath. But I saw her and my labor seemed trivial. I took her hand. Don’t you ever wash? she asked.

And then we noticed the coming of the dawn and she said, Oh wow, and I moved in to kiss her, and she said, I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.

The breeze messes her hair and for a moment she is the most exquisite thing in the world but then her extensions blow off and she runs away.