By the time his bride arrived, he’d memorized his cloak-and-dagger act. His soft, swift assurance swooned her—but only an hour. No fool she, and no half-lidded maneuverings escaped her. She, too, loved power and its intoxication.

She developed a dappled scarlet rash and used it as a passport. When at last it seemed no more good could come, she collapsed into a sweat and the doctor was called. He diagnosed an acute consumption of nerve. She played at it until the last drop had been wrung, then pulled on her boots for a romp.

On he went, scaling the summits and slaying the beasts that blocked his way. His diligence became a mania, then a specter. Taller grew the stacks of paper, vaster the horizon of his daily riding-out. Creature comforts made him itch. He tried his best regarding the flannel pajamas, the bedside jar of flowers, and damply conciliatory jokes—it was the right thing to do. But alas! In this life, to what do we pin our badges?

The efficiency of their machine astonished and delighted passersby and the dogs at the hearth. No respite for it, but they applied oil to the joints religiously. It was passed to their children in a velvet-lined case: a timepiece, an instrument, a weapon, a relic.

BJ

Never mind his head was too small for his body—he was big and handsome, broad of chest, with dark hair that grew in thick luxury and was a pleasure to comb. Mealtime was what we looked forward to. When I was sloppy with my plate, I could count on him to help. When we were done, I’d sit on the floor and he’d lay his full weight on me and groan as he did so. I’d wrap one arm around his neck and squeeze.

Then, when I came home early from work one day, he was on the porch of a neighbor’s house with several children attending to him. They’d made a wreath for his head and a garland for his neck and around him lay several small bundles of grass and sticks as well as a large, dirty cow bone and a bright orange ball and the shrunken, naked bodies of some synthetic men and women.

I stopped and rolled down my window. I shouted. He cringed—caught!—then stood and shook off his accoutrements. He jumped into the back of the car and licked my ear.

Bye, BJ! a child shouted.

How do you know his name? I said.

Everybody knows BJ, the child said.

BJ was a slow stroller, a leisure-taker, a smeller of roses and corpses. Like a female, he’d gracefully squat to wet some bush or other. He never needed restraint. I’d loop his leash around my own neck instead. I liked the rhythmic thump of the clasp on my chest. I thought of a girl I knew who buckled a collar of black leather, studded with spikes, tight to her white throat.