Feeling a bit like Alice who’s fallen down the rabbit hole and is being asked to eat this or drink this, I turn the card over looking for a signatur... or any indication of who sent it. There’s nothing. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ I think. I pack up the mask, set the box aside and go about the rest of my busy day, only glancing occasionally at it out of the corner of my eye. Wednesday morning I’m actually almost on time. I left the box with the mask in my office and have been worried about it. He was nude and smelled of mint, having just showered, this glorious man for whom I’d long ago given up my so-called life in New York and come out to the flat plains of the Midwest. I touched the tribal tattoo on his chest, looked down at the red earth of the cellar floor, and said quietly, ‘I’ve been keeping the box there,’ pointing to a spot under a tarp. He nodded, went and got the box. Itt had been a total of seven years since our little girl had been born, but I remember that night like it. More

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