=Why I Live Alone=

Oh no, it’s happened yet again, I’m in love. For some reason, though, I can’t tell this time around: am I the woman or the man? Then I realize: I’m both! No, it occurs to me, that’s the mistake I always make. It’s even more complicated than that. Happening to look up because of some subtle atmospheric alteration, I see it’s all a puppet show—the woman, the man, and someone else, the puppeteer, I presume (the real me?) is up there pulling the strings. From that moment on, I decide I’ll live as a recluse. I go to the bank, withdraw every last dime, and run away from town to a place where no one knows me. Maybe I go to Tuscany, if that’s even possible; anyway, it must be a place where I can rent a room in a stone house built in medieval times. In the afternoons, I sit at the window and look out into the courtyard. There are always children at play in the sun. It saddens me to see them exchanging small acts of kindness.