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16. This Halloween I tape strips of bubble wrap to an umbrella and call myself a jellyfish. I had considered donning my old habit, but drove it to Williams instead and chucked it into the Grand Canyon. Goddamn myself, I thought afterward. I could have pawned that habit. I spend the entire Halloween night with tired arms, drinking beers in Grover’s living room with a fifth grade teacher I always catch glancing my way. We are the youngest of the teachers. He is not unattractive. He says, “What are you doing this weekend?” “Oh, lots,” can you believe, is what I say. Grover, who is forty-something but dressed as Wonder Woman, has taken off her top and is crying.

17. “Are you OK?” My mother calls to ask. “I can schedule your teeth cleaning for Christmas.”

18. I practice saying “Coyote” like “Hi oat.” I do it in front of the mirror, but cannot bear the sight of more than two run-throughs. It is unnatural.

19. What I actually do this weekend is I finish that cake and, later that night, absorbed in Oprah, forget to floss. I call home to ask: “Did you schedule that appointment?” “What honey? What’s that?” says my mother. “Can I call you back?” They are at the mall, shopping for a new cordless phone. My sisters: formidable.

20. “You never answer the phone,” is how he explains his presence at my door. I try to hide the beef jerky in my hand but he is oblivious, awaiting an invitation inside. “How do you pronounce ‘coyote’?” I ask.

21. “You have a nice place,” he says. “That’s a nice lawn.”

22. This year his fifth graders are learning to keep their work bound in three ring binders, with subject dividers. They’re also learning fractions. “What’s a heart divided,” I say, and he says, “What? What was that?” “Nothing.”

23. What, now, does he want? A dinner invitation? My pantry contains dried mangoes and Grape Nuts. The fridge holds a gallon of rancid buttermilk, remnant of a more ambitious week. I see him to the door, say “See you on Monday,” and shut it quickly.

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