Melodious as Groucho Marx, the middle-aged New York transplant answers Boyfriend’s and my ad (Valley Pennywise, August ‘80), taps at the screen door. When I open, he looks me in the eye. Offers his hand. Bends. Mustache tickles my skin. I’m a twenty-two-year-old fairy princess. Alive. Winged. In the whole back-and-forth over the queen size (or was it full?—God, I was young), he ignores Boyfriend. In fact, scowls if Boyfriend says anything. To me, Groucho’s all peaches and cream and isn’t so decrepit he can’t maneuver the bed past Boyfriend’s huge television (the only other furnishing we own) and down the outdoor stairs. Everything in L.A. is outside. Even the lickety-split flames that leap up grand houses stilted over canyons. Nothing that vertical ever happened in my pancake hometown. Though Mom once accidentally set the toilet ablaze (no, she didn’t sneak smokes; we used matches to deodorize). Here in Cali, Mattress Man makes it clear the purchase is for him, alone. The lit moments we interact there’s a gurgling sense, by unspoken fiat, that, due to our soon-to-commingle animal scents, we’re already sleeping together.