It looks like I’m glancing over my shoulder but my head doesn’t turn. Verbs are for servants, darling, here on the day bed in the garden, by the pool between the fountains, on the empty breakfast terrace. Would you be a doll and something. Silver fruit bowl, hint of movement, a monocle atop a fashion magazine—shadow across the gallery marble but no one in the archway behind me on the divan in one strapless gown and then another, scarlet, suddenly maroon. I’d rather be crouching behind a dumpster with a leaky eyeball in a swarm of flies. Even the moonlight is sunlit.