Roger seemed eager to charm, but I was not charmed. I felt spotlighted by his attentiveness, his anticipation of what I might want—another helping of fava bean salad, more water, an extra napkin when I dropped a chunk of braised pork on my skirt. I would say something self-deprecating, and he’d regard me steadily and assure me that I was a wonderful person, deserving of all I wanted from life, which wasn’t what I’d been asking for. Roger didn’t know me and wasn’t a credible judge of my worth—unless his position was that all people had worth, which made him no judge at all. When I shifted the subject to him, he supplied a backstory that seemed pre-written.

In the past I had approached dating with the typical fervor of an addict. I’d worked independently to construct the scaffolding of a relationship, then waited for the man I was seeing to step into the blank space I’d retained in his form. Inevitably, he would either balk at the role I’d assigned him, or accede to my formidable will, at which point I’d realize I didn’t really want him as my boyfriend anyway. With Sam, I resolved to do nothing. I would root myself in the present moment, accepting the man before me without judgment. I allowed Sam to set the pace of our dating, waiting for him to initiate contact and propose when we should hang out next.

On our third date, I invited him back to my apartment after dinner, and we had sex. Sam handled my body thoughtfully, like a new pair of shoes he would break in and wear often. It was not mind-blowing, but early sex rarely was. It wasn’t horrifyingly bad, and in this I glimpsed limitless potential. He was careful with his weight and with where he placed his knees. I liked how, as he hovered his body above mine, he cupped the side of my face in his hand.

“It’s so nice here,” I whispered. Sam didn’t know it, but this was my final attempt. I was giving him one last chance to reveal some soft part of himself he’d kept hidden.

Upstairs, Mark stood at the kitchen counter spreading almond butter on toast. From across the kitchen Reese was struck by a vision of him as a stranger. Mark was suddenly not her boyfriend of five years but an unfamiliar man in his late thirties with thinning hair, a swollen stomach, and small, soft hands. She could not imagine spotting this man across a train platform in some Central European capital and allowing the crowd to carry her to him, brushing against him in hope that some part of her would stick, burr-like, to the weft of his flannel.

“I don’t like the name Todd.” Reese had had an unsettling sexual encounter with a Todd in high school, in the wings of the stage where the marching band practiced. During their courtship Mark would have seized upon this allusion, a thread he could pull to unravel her.

Mark peeled his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m late. See you tonight.” He kissed her cheek, hurting her with his beard.

Reese struggled to individuate her descriptions of the three fucking-machine videos. She was running out of ways to describe a vagina as hungry. Her pussy is ravenous. Her pussy had a light lunch and now it’s dinnertime. Her pussy slavers for nourishment. Her pussy is about to faint from low blood sugar. Her pussy carries almonds in its purse to tide it over until the next meal.

Reese watched as Mark tore the skin from a breast and set it aside. He pried up shards of white meat with his fork and wrapped the meat in its own skin, then placed the packet in his mouth so the skin wouldn’t lodge between his incisors. He appeared so self-possessed, so contented by his tiny rituals, that Reese was filled with resentment. She knew her anger didn’t correspond to the actual structure of their lives. She was free to do as she liked. She was not bound to the home by anything but the fact that they possessed a single car. And yet she felt a primordial rage toward Mark, as though he were a brute husband who went out to conquer the world, while she was trapped in this house with its flooded basement. She endeavored to say nothing to Mark, and to observe how much time would pass before he noticed.

She returned to the living room, where she spent the morning summarizing videos in the categories of Water Bondage, Sadistic Rope, Electro Sluts. Her descriptions read increasingly like recipes. We start her on her back and stuff her until she squirts her savory juices. We finish her standing and drizzled with cream.

To be honest things weren’t going so well even before the head started coming out of my floor. I was unemployed and universally hated thanks to some choices I’d made. Afternoons I’d go sit in this median strip a few blocks from my apartment and write things in my notebook while cars barreled past. Sometimes I brought a guitar.

First it was just a soft patch. I figured maybe, you know, the floor was rotting. What did I know about floors?

I texted this guy Chris and was like. Hey Chris.

So Chris came over. He also seemed sort of a little bit more dressed up than the last time I saw him, though to be honest I don’t remember when that was or who Chris even is. He brought pizza. So I’m like, that’s cool. Better than Lee. Lee didn’t bring anything. When he saw the top of the head he—I mean Chris—well, you could tell he wasn’t expecting that. He brought his tools, too, I didn’t mention that. Both pizza and tools. Way better than Lee.

I asked Chris to touch it, you know, to see if it was warm. He said he didn’t want to. I said this is why I asked him to come over. This is what I needed him for. So Chris looked like he was going to throw up or like collapse in upon himself like a dead star due to this sudden revelation of like, the harrowing absurdity, futility, pain. I mean of existence. He laid the towel carefully over the head. I thought you just wanted to hang out, he said. He sounded like. Wounded. He took the pizza with him.