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And maybe if this man uses more fingers right now, you believe it is possible to get there, that blissful place where wanton fucking is supposed to get you. Within striking distance of love, you want to believe. Instead, screwing the cap on the bc media tube of KY, this man tells you how, leaning over the brown bc media sofa, he had fucked a Colombian architect who no longer replies to his poetic e-mails. Now, there’s an oxymoron, you think—poetry and e-mail. Then the man suggests you turn over. It’s then that you spot a photograph of his son, a young bc media man hanging on the side of a train carriage. He sports a T-shirt worn over a sweatshirt, and his shoulders slope. Over lunch you’ve learned that this son rides trains up and down California.
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