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housecoat on a hook. Des died four years ago of heart failure. Peanut butter jar on the floor, fridge open. Holding the knife. Smoking toast in the stucktoaster. The red light of the ambulance on the walls of the hallway. Now I’m awake.

    Tequila I drank, scotch. Elasticky top and sarong. Beer. Robert warned me, when he throws a party. Dancing. Slamming doors, laughter, the Stones. I have dated, since Des died, no one: an air traffic controller, a very young painter, no one, the reporter guy, absolutely no one, the carpenter. The tooth became unbearable two days ago. I didn’t tell Robert. Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name. You can’t leave. How can you leave? Bodies pressed close, smoky ceiling. Blow the speakers. We took a cab. Hope you guess my. Get a taxi. If we dance. In the fridge door. Mine are the cold ones. Pleased to meet you. Have one of mine. The cold ones. I got laid. Tell me. I’ll tell you after this. We need a toast. Our coats are where? Forget the coats. Don’t leave, it’s a party. Because the toilet. What happened to the tequila? Your own stupid fault. My wife took the traditional route. Does it have a worm in it? I’ll put one in if you like. There have been women, yes. There have been women, I’ll admit. We’ll call ourselves the Fleshettes. The people impressed me most. I’m not responsible. Hope you guess my. We haven’t talked. We’re talking now. This is talking? Name. I love you. Don’t say that. I love you, what do you think? I think more beer.

    The sky is the deepest blue it gets before it begins to look black. The stars are blue. The trees roar with wind and become quiet. I lie flat on my husband’s grave and look at the stars. Freshly mowed grass, a faint marshy smell, the ducks at the edge of the lake. This morning, resting my head against the hand dryer in the bathroom of Robert’s office. Tears start this way: the bridge of my nose, my eyelids, the whole face tingling, the clutch of a muscle in the throat. The smell of burnt coffee — homey, unloved office coffee — makes me cry. Some songs: Patsy Cline. Bad blue icing on the birthday cake the girls bought for the boss. I cry at least four times a day. The tears catch in the plastic rims of my glasses. My eyelids like slugs. While waiting for the elevator I hear laughter inside, ascending, inclusive, sexual. I cry with jealousy. Marcy Andrews coming into the bathroom after me. Unclicking her purse, getting the cotton swab out of a pill bottle, tapping two pills into my hand. Marcy smoothing her thumbs over my wet cheeks. She turns me to the mirror and she looks hard at me.
    She says, Lipstick will give you a whole new lease.
    I can’t be alone, I say.
    The leaves in the graveyard smell leathery, pumpkinish. The branches creak when the wind rubs them together. Des’s hands folded over a rose, his wedding ring. When do the teeth fall away from the skull? Does that happen? It’s beginning to get cold. Snow on his headstone makes me panicky.
    A flashlight waves erratically through the shrubs, catching the bright green moss on a carved angel’s cheek, her cracked wing. Another flashlight, soft oval bouncing in the leaves overhead,scuffle of feet. I’m surrounded by a circle of teenagers with baseball bats and fence pickets. They step, one by one, out of the trees and bushes. Or else they have always been standing there. All the headstones, tipping, lichen-crusted. I stand up, my legs watery. We stand like that, not speaking or moving.
    You seen a guy run through here?
    I whisper, No. I haven’t seen anybody. Three policemen arrive and the teenagers flee. A policeman steps forward and puts an arm around my shoulder and I cry into his armpit.

    Robert lowers a tool into my mouth and I say, Stop.
    I say, That was a test.
    He says, That was a scalpel. I would just trust me if I were you.
    I feel him cut the gum and fold the flesh back. His eyes full of veins blue and violet; my blood sprays dots on his glasses. He