And what the hell was up with that tongue-pink ink? I knew I wouldn't find the answers staring at the slip of paper, so I did something I'm not supposed to do. I woke him up.

Joshua was never coy about his sleeping, but I never figured it would get so... well, violent isn't the word because television trains us to expect violence to happen in slow motion.

There can be a thousand reasons for this, I thought. He has my soc because he does our taxes. I mean, I have his soc somewhere, but I know I don't keep it on the back of a reciept. Why the hell would he carry it around?

Here's the weird thing, though, and bear with me if you think I'm as dull as a gray-wet dishrag, the dashes were in all the wrong places. You know how a phone number goes... la-la-la, then a dash, la-la-la, another dash, la-la-la-la... ten digits. But this was la-la-la, dash, la-la, dash, la-la-la-la, a period, and a final la, like a social security number. In fact, it was MY social security number with the number three following it.

And then I got out of bed, flipped myself two eggs over easy, and was about to smother them in ketchup when the act became too vile for me. I'm not a snooper, but I had to look. I started in his wallet, not sure what I expected, as if a condom or lipstick or whatever else definitive would come tumbling out, answering my prayers and creating my nightmares. I found it in the unexpected--a Chick-fil-A receipt with ten digits neatly printed on the back in tongue pink colored ink.

I lay there for a moment, wondering when last night he had come in, and I realized that not only did I not know then, I hardly knew any other night. I thought I was losing my mind. How could I effortlessly remember every breathless, whispered, "I love you, Killian," count every hair on the back of his long fingers, name every freckle in the constellations on his stomach and yet not recall where he had said he was going last night? How could I visualize every scrawled figure of our first correspondence together, a note passed back in Dr. Hammer's sociology class, when I couldn't remember if he had even given me his cell phone number?

I woke up one morning and realized the last eight years had been a ruse. Joshua was sleeping next to me, spooning our quilt kitty. And in place of the adorable boy I had been in love with, laid a hump of clay that revolted me. I couldn't breathe.

Paige, the most upsetting thing happened the other day that I simply MUST tell you about. You remember my fiancé, Joshua, the art dealer? Firstly, I should confess that we're not exactly the ideal couple; in real life we barely resemble the the heroes of the stories *I* always tell you. It starts like this...

Paige-

The letter is in. Everything is in place except the looks. The postman comes at 5.

-JN.

In the meantime, I have enclosed another fifty euros for postage and sundries. I shall also need you to replace your spectacles and overcoat. The enclosed picture should describe that which I have in mind.

Your mother is doing well.

30 April 1997

Mr. Joshua Niles, 1891 1/2 Hollow Drive, River Roads, MA 18762

Dear Mr. Niles:

As we previously discussed, I can solve your problem; if you want me to get my people in line, you know what to do.

Peer Hammer,

She won't give it back. Please advise.

- JN

I want out. Yeah it sounds dramatic, but what do I have to lose, really? Love me anew or you'll find me 6 feet under and only an autopsy will get your beloved ring back.

Love and kisses,
Killian.

You lie even to yourself. Getting that ring back is going to be harder on your leprous hands than digging in the soft compost of our relationship to pull out the corpse of our love. Use your spider car to follow the flies. Flies - lies - Josh - gosh!

Don't you laugh, Josh. You have practiced deception, hell, you've mastered it. You a pretentious bastard, smug in your house of glass.