from Some Distinguishing Mark

He said he was a sculptor and that he built small violent objects that no one could touch: razor blade sponges and door knockers made of rusty nails and hangers. His studio was around the corner from my apartment. Another sign. I gave him my phone number, but he didn't call. Called him, but he didn't answer. I left baskets of fruit at his studio door -- hollowed-out apples stuffed with condoms bearing love notes. I looked for him on the street like a lost child at the zoo. We met again, by accident, in the cat food aisle at the corner store. He said he saw me go in and found himself following me. He then placed his hand on my breast.

That was the first night he left me to go back to his wife. Left me lying on the kitchen floor amidst broken tumblers of dark rum, the slivers of glass spread around my head, catching moonlight like a halo.