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As if nothing short of someone holding you can keep you from bouncing from thought suicide to suicide doubt to analysis. You have spent only one night in bed with a man. Ever. Someone you cruised at a volunteer meeting in support of a public library. You suicide were both wearing random name tags. He had picked the name Keith. You invited Keith over. Keith followed you home down Santa Monica Boulevard. It was the night you came closest to being fucked. It was a Saturday night, the night you usually make a weekly call to your mother in India. But you didn’t call because Keith would awaken. Still, you missed your mother. Something about the library and books and the families and reading together, silently. So your crying awakened him. And Keith, the stranger, said, "She’s there, you are here, it’s your life now." And you just stared at him, your big black eyes brimming with disdain.
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