I haven’t made love in ages, which isn’t true. But I often say, well, many things. I often say that the truth isn’t in the truth but in what feels like the truth. I haven’t made love in ages, so I flip through my phone, watching strangers on the internet, who are also, not making love. And I can’t tell as they walk a trail through Phuket or parasail over a river in Colorado, if any of us have made love or are making love, I think, sometimes, when I am horny in the afternoon, I just need my mind to find a new subject, like when a dog perks up its ears, hears something rattling in the distant wood, through aspen and leaf molder and bird song, a hum too low for human ears, which turns out, when we inspect it, trail the dog down muddy path, through fiddlehead fern and roots like knuckles of bone, to be, by the lake, to be the last two people making love. Night falls. Stars bob in the lake. We turn home, the dog and I, hopeful that you are at home, and in the mood to make love.
