There is no narrative without memory, and so for me the story begins when I woke up on the floor, curled up naked on the carpet at the foot of my queen-size bed. It had been a deep, dreamless sleep. Drool had dried on the corner of my mouth and still soaked part of the shag under my cheek. I was disoriented for several minutes, as one sometimes is upon awakening in a strange hotel room on vacation. The fact that I was seeing my own bedroom from a completely new angle deepened my sense of dislocation: creating the queasy clash of the familiar and the unfamiliar in the same glance.

Shakily I rose to my feet and looked about. Late morning sun streamed in through my un-shaded window. By its light I could see the outline of a figure in my bed. As my eyes focused I could see it was a woman. My mind was just beginning to process how beautiful she was when, without stirring or opening her eyes, she spoke. Read more…