Lying in bed with the sleeping Mrs. Moskowski, his body drained of its seminal fluids, his ubiquitous symbol of creation and vitality lying raw and withered as a flailed piece of rope on his leg, he felt mystified and slightly appalled at the situation he now found himself in. His George Washington wig had twisted during sleep so that its pigtail hung over his ear. Even Honey’s wig had fallen off and lay like an empty beehive beside her. A year ago, before his last birthday, he would have recoiled from this crazy scene. He would have struggled with the sadness of it for days. But now it was as if a rush-hour crowd had pushed him aside, declaring him forever invalid, denying him their reasons, and their purpose. He felt adrift without wanting to be, forced against his will to find separate
