From 'The Gentleman With The Lap Dog' Iii Poem by Morgan Michaels

I asked him what he hoped to do after sunset.

'Probably go back to my place, ' speculated Jack, now Anna. 'We'll probably have more watermelon, ' he further mused.

'And, then? '

'Peter! cried Tanya, 'that's enough! '

So that was that.

Together we watched Jack open a drawer in the nightstand, take out a comb and begin to tidy his hair. Adding pathos was the fact that Jack is more or less bald. He dragged the teeth of the comb over his bare scalp and bounced them around his ears.

'Jack, be careful, ' warned Tanya, 'you'll hurt yourself.'

'It's really his mustache that needs combing, I said.

We watched him open the drawer and drop the comb back in. The door slid shut. It was amazing to see how a person's reality could be changed by some sort of hippocampal prestidigitation- drug-induced or other. And there are people whose beliefs manage to keep fixed.

'Has he ever done anything like this before? ' I asked, looking off.

'Absolutely not! ' she snorted, he's totally predictable. He never changes. I can't even get him to eat pizza.'