The dog tells me that's he leaving me, that he no longer likes sticking his nose in my crotch. This last week he has been slipping his leash after I fall asleep and sucking cock in the backroom at Woody's. He tells me about the glory holes in the bathroom of the New York Public Library. I tell him he's lying, that dogs aren't allowed in the library. I'm having trouble breathing. I sit down on the edge of the bed. I shout, what, so women aren't good enough for you anymore! I remind him of our first date, how he tied me up and we cried all night. Never before had I been threatened with such tenderness, such sincerity. You can't fake that! I scream. I am sobbing. I am not a woman if my dog doesn't want me. I'm a question mark in a skirt. The dog has his sad puppy-dog eyes on. I've seen him practice this look in the mirror. He asks me not to hate him. He rolls his eyes and whines.  I know that he's already picturing himself out on a walk, leaving me here alone in a room full of condoms and chew toys, some man's hand on his leash. I wonder if it's my scent that he finds so vile. He rests his chin on his crossed paws. It's not that you're fat, he tells me. There's a gland near the base of the skull that regulates it-- this desire, this thing, for bones.

I want him in the supply closet

at the lawyer's office, waiting for the

half hour to pass, I want him

to protest, softly, I want him to call

my name, twice, and I want him

to kneel with his head under my skirt.

I want him to take me, there, as

the attorney parses my husband's divorce

petition, and I want us both to pause,

trembling, while the receptionist

calls us and tries my cell phone,

and I want us to stay there, in the dim room,

with the door locked from the outside.