See You Next Week

 

The storm of passion once over, he would have given worlds, had he possessed them, to have restored to her that innocence of which his unbridled lust had deprived her. Of the desires which had urged him to the crime, no trace was left in his bosom. The wealth of India would not have tempted him to a second enjoyment of her person.

—Matthew Lewis, The Monk

Don’t worry while you’re gone. I won’t riffle the drawers of lacy negligees or search for porn or evidence of perversion. Instead I’ll go straight to your books. How rare, these instances of being in your house without you there, and so I’ll take advantage of the silence. Breaking and entering was once a pleasure for this adolescent reason, to know another’s life, or its furnishings at least, but this time I have the key. You asked me to feed the cats. So I have fed the cats, cleaned out the mechanical turk of a litter box you seem to find necessary. Now they are distracted and I can run my hands along your spines, imagine these vertebrae a finger at a time, tip out a couple titles without losing their place, try to parse the logic of your collection.