A Woman Who Shaves Or Otherwise Depilates

She Was Standing In The Airport Of Copenhagen, Staring At A Doorway, Trying To Figure Out If It Was (a) A Bathroom And (b) What Kind Of Bathroom It Was. The Door Merely Said H. Was She An H? Was H "hers"? It Could Just As Easily Be "his". Or "helicopter Room: Not A Bathroom At All

It Was Fine," I Said Stiffly. "we Played Mouse Trap." "is That What They're Calling It These Days?" She Asked, Throwing Me A Terrible Grin. "i Have To Go Give Rachel A Quick Bath. Feel Free To Make Yourself Some Cocoa Or Whatever You Like!" She Stopped Short Of Adding "...future Child-bride Of My Only Son.

I Try To Shake It Loose-but These Ideas, They Cling. It's Like I'm Shackled To Them With An Iron Chain. They Rattle Along Behind Me, Dragging Against The Ground, Always Reminding Me Of Their Presence.

I Have No Phobias. Phobias Are Irrational. My Fears Are Rational And Carefully Cultivated, Like Roses.

With That, I Splashed Some Water On My Face, Fixed On A Smile, And Stepped Out. I Would Find Jerome. I Would Make Him Explain To Me What I Was Missing. We Would Laugh, Then We Would Kiss With Tongue, And All Would Be Well.