It was driving him toward something flat, that hypothetical plane, the endless one from the textbooks. What would intersect? No shortage of bugs found their end on the windscreen, the headlights. What light would draw him in? What shrieking siren? A police gumball? Some windblown whorehouse… He was sure it would be trouble. Time was an unruly bitch, a real heel-nipper. A tail-chaser. A bone-gnawer. Whatever it was, it was following him.

Ugly didn’t make any difference. He knew what he deserved and didn’t expect better. Two tits and something wet between the legs. He pictured a grove of trees, a creek running through the middle. He’d find cover; things wouldn’t find him. There was some beetle eating all the elms, but the Chinese elms resisted. He’d find some Chinese elms and lay her down.

It was a meeting, so to speak. A closed loop. On that flat and fruited plain, between the dusty lines, there were all sorts of zigs to be had, zags that followed no logic. But that dog pressed on, she was hungry for the act and he had never been one to shake her. Had he tried? Sure, but had he ever really given it the fight? The old tooth and nail? Was it deserving or wanting? She whined. Whined and whined until it was over. And he was glad. Glad to do it again.