“Stop brooding. Or at least if you’re gonna continue, don’t sit so close to that cactus. You’re bumming the both of us out. See? Its tiny little cock has gone limp.”The magazine slides to the floor as I turn my head to see the sorry-looking cactus behind the couch. What Eric is referring to as its penis hangs limp on the ‘body’ like it always has.”

“It's dying," I say. "When the center is exposed like that, it doesn't have a chance.""But it's beautiful," she points out, I stare at the shriveling cactus and try to see the beauty in it."That's the way I want to go out," she decides."What?" I ask. "Torn up and ripped open?"She shakes her head. "Totally exposed, with no regrets. You can tell this cactus lived; it has the battle scars to prove it. Why go out looking perfect and put together? It means you didn't experience anything. You didn't take any risks.”

“So I came down here, to breathe dust and walk with the dogs-- to look at a rock or a cactus and know that I am the first person to see that cactus and that rock.”

“Don’t be a critic. The critic is to art what the limp penis is to sex.”

“What now? (Shahara)I’m thinking. (Syn)Could you think a little quicker? (Shahara)You’re not helping. (Syn)You’re lucky you’re still breathing and not limping. (Shahara)”

“Well?”“Well, what?” I waved a hand at the room.“Start genuflecting. Let’s see some knee action.”“You’re serious.” I lifted my brows. He responded in kind, but finally nodded his head, then walked between the couches. He dropped to one knee, then held out his hands.“I’m monumentally sorry for the pain and humiliation that I caused you and your—”“Both knees.” “Pardon?” “I’d prefer to see both knees on the ground. I mean, if you’re going to grovel, be the best groveler you can, right?”