If only he’d told her to do so, she’d have left her lighthouse, packed her multicoloured rucksack, and come to him. She’d have given him her hand and warmed him with her lips. Her ears would’ve been ready for him to unleash his most vulnerable secrets and most cumbersome confessions. She would have counseled him as a comrade, embraced him as a friend, and adored him as a lover. But he didn’t tell her, so she cut his groin out of every picture of him she could find and acquired the first of many cats.