Newborn spiders exist largely in heat, the home we rent now is stone cold. It sits far from town and people but not animals honking, snorting, flapping. On my way there tonight I stop in a bar‹boom, at the door stands a very calm looking you. Or maybe its depression. Youıre with one of our previous drivers, dressed, as I remember he did years ago, in short shorts and a tank. His face and hands are beet red, his arms and legs are white; just back, he explains, from skiing vacation. He munches a sandwich that doesnıt hold together but crumbles to the floor‹it isnıt his fault‹I crouch, gather the fallen bits in a hankie you gave me. Never has this driver looked more like an ostrich: towering frame, bulging belly, skin that is deeply wrinkling. I know, from once sharing his room, his concerns about skin deeply wrinkling. He wonıt travel without one special tote bag from Paris, filled with creams and mild electric (skin tightening) shock tools from that same city. I deposit the sandwich crumbs in an ashtray, the hankie in my purse, leave him for you, now seriously staring out of a window. Unless youıre in depression. You stroke my cheek, say time to head home and rest up for your important morning lecture.

The last building we pass in town before the fields and streams of our long walk home is the Temporary Employment Office, where I have an appointment in the morning.

We reach our freezing rental. On its doorstep, one large box addressed to you. Inside, neatly folded, tailor made linen outfits for your upcoming series of lectures. I carry the box upstairs, unpack, take you in my arms, fall into bed. Next morning I walk downstairs to you brewing coffee and trying on your new linen clothing. Youıve also cleaned the house spotless. Not that I let it get dirty. I drink several cups of your coffee, walk to the Temporary Employment Office, am offered a position in a factory, stamping out cookies. I love cookies. Uniforms are required, but the place blares music and lets employees sip juice from straws in liter bottles. Luckily, I left home wearing shoe inserts so my arches wonıt sag from standing.

I take my place in line. Several workers down from me I spot a late adolescent, working in boiling silence: beads of sweat dot his brow and smooth upper lip, but his shoulders and facial expressions stay fixed.

On our first break, I use the factory bathroom. Chipped paint, rubble covered floor, two stalls, one sink. Paper towels and rolls of toilet paper fill a shelf next to the sink. I close myself in the stall, drain, wipe, flush, walk out to wash, see that same late adolescent looking at himself in the mirror with an expression I can only describe as maniac.

After my shift I exit the factory; there stands you in one of your new linen outfits, holding a bouquet of flowers. I hope theyıre for me, nuzzle your neck, close my eyes, open them to the late adolescent yards behind you, looking totally maniac. He stabs an early adolescent in the back. Other adolescents surround them, but it isnıt clear whose side they are on. I drag you beneath the neighboring buildingıs awning, a gesture you misperceive as unbridled passion. I try to explain: peel away from you, say what I saw, but wind up only bubbling saliva. You draw back, as if I am getting sick or getting crazy. The youth who was stabbed sprints off, not bloody. An instant later the adolescent maniac pops up behind you, knife poised; itıs a toy knife, rubber. But still I canıt help my screaming. You drop (what I hope are) my flowers, duck into bushes. Never having seen the adolescent. I kick the youth in his right, then left, shin; he gulps with laughter, stuffs the fallen flowers in his pants, retreats. I pull you out of bushes, explain we are in danger, and should sprint up that hill topped with tables of people talking, drinking, al fresco. When we reach it, we, too, talk, drink al fresco. You show me where youıve ripped your roomy new trousers. I mend them, we drink, dance, hold one another very tight.

Next morning, you pedal off to lecture, I prepare for work. The doorbell rings; I hope it is you. It is the postman holding a festively wrapped package addressed to me. Inside stand a pair of imitation shoes: glass mules the size of my feet, but unwearable, because of their fragile material. The box is strewn with obscure confections. Nestled at the bottom, a photo of that previous driver, looking totally ostrich.

I leave the slippers, our home, for a full work day. At its end Iım hoping to fit in some gardening, but you appear. Pleased enough with your lecture to suggest monorailing north to see the imitation Olympic Village, maybe even spend the night in one of their rental A-Frames. We look down at my A-line skirt, smile, run, catch the monorail. We reach the village in minutes, rent an A-frame‹get a discount because of my skirt. The rental has tea making facilities including lumps of brown but not white sugar and things to eat: hard, fruit flavored sour candy; chocolate and plain wafer biscuits. The agent told us about an interesting mall, also of problems lurking in it. For example, a mini-skirted woman with a very short man who approach pedestrians, fondle them skillfully, make off with jewelry, wallets, hats. I pocket some candy, we visit the mall. Which we do expect to be sparsely populated, not so dimly lit. Since working in the factory Iım wild for juice so you go off to get some. I sit in a lobby club chair, eat candy. Who walks toward me but a mini-skirted woman with a very short man. Iıve been warned, am on guard, but they radiate a fresh smell then their fondling is so good and so sudden I find myself handing them my watch, even the hankie you gave me, still smudged with bits of our old driverıs crumbling sandwich. But I donıt want to lose that gift from you, so, shoot one candy piece Iım sucking into the womanıs eye, another piece Iım also sucking into the manıs forehead. The duo split without my belongings. I reassemble, unwrap more candy, thereıs you trotting down the lobby with my favorite juice.

Next morning we monorail home, our faces are pinched, Iım freezing cold, so you take off your scarf, drape it on me.

That afternoon, you continue delivering your series of lectures, I continue stamping out cookies. Later that week I meet the cookie-plant owner. Beard, boots, jumpsuit. Sometimes he stands next to me when Iım stamping, others, we ride together in the elevator. I feel warmth toward him, no sexual attraction. Still later that week, I take my afternoon break alone, walking the woods surrounding our factory. Not because I donıt enjoy my co-workers.

I inhale fresh air, listen to wildlife honking, snorting, flapping, trip over what I think is a log but when I look, its legs. Of a girl adolescent, flat in the forest, rubber knife suction cupped to her forehead. I shake her developing body: twice gentle, twice hard. She breathes but the eyes stay shut. The weather has turned foggy. I fear sheıs fatally injured, run to the cookie plant for help, not through woods, but down a lamp-lit road that might have traffic. Running down it I picture that developing girl, bloody faced. She isnıt bloody faced. Itıs a picture I keep making. A car roars behind me, stops. Itıs the cookie plant owner. I say what I saw. He answers, get in, then, yea, there have been a spate of butchered adolescent girls in these woods lately, JUST KIDDING. My heart pounds but I pay attention while he explains who I saw was his sister, preparing for her drama club audition. Anyway his family lives just here, could I come join them in an early dinner? I answer, I havenıt finished my shift. He answers he, the plant owner, says I donıt have to.

We turn into a barely visible driveway. At its end an A-Frame. Inside is sparsely furnished and way overheated. The plant ownerıs mother greets us, wiping her hands on an apron. Her hair and dress are immaculate. She returns to cooking, explaining sheıs completely occupied. The plant owner shows me where to wash. The bathroom is a box: small, hot, binding. On its walls, mounted rifles with rust in their barrels, maybe relics from war. When I catch my reflection in the mirror Iım giving myself a frighteningly devoted look. Still, when I emerge itıs relieved, and to a loudly laid table: striped napkins, plaid rings, polka-dot china. Neon-handled cutlery matching neon-stemmed goblets. The plant ownerıs mother emerges, immaculate, carrying a platter of apricot stuffed Cornish hens, and comes off being completely occupied. Two early adolescent girls enter. The plant owner introduces them as his sisters. Neither resembles the adolescent flat in the woods. I ask the plant owner if these sisters are also in drama club, but heıs busy de-skinning his Cornish hen, and reminding his mother he has an allergy to poultry covering. He and I rub elbows. Pleasant, no sexual attraction. His mother eats her meal with manners I can only describe as immaculate. His sisters, maybe practicing for drama club, giggle, play with their food, tease my plantıs owner about school. I put my lips to his ear, ask how long since heıs been in school, and if he studied cookie stamping plant management there, but before I can finish smell glue. Then see it. Dried, white dot between his ear and facial hair. I pick it. Off peels the beard, exposing the stony skin of that adolescent maniac. My heart stops, I think Iıve lost it, but jump, invent a threat: you have an arsenal, and an unstoppable will to cut up and sauté anyone behaving so maniac toward me. Then I overturn my chair, flee down the barely visible driveway I illuminate with my purse pen flashlight: my legs grow fast, faster until I reach the well lit road. There, I head not toward the factory but our rented home. I reach it, its lavish upstairs toilet, easemyself down, let out a long yellow stream.

After I chill a very nice, though small, bottle of wine, bathe, think of you: the size of your feet, the sway of your hips, your zippered nylon backpack. You enter, stick, boots, hat, explaining youıve been out walking woods.

I step out of the tub, oil myself, ask if I can wear one of your new linen outfits.

Dressed I blow-dry my hair, you wait for me cross legged, clenching and bending your fingers to make shadows, spending most of your time with your favorite: a dog, actually a puppy ripening into doghood.