The passage of my feet over a small piece of rug in the bathroom causes the rug to move a fraction of an inch with every contact. I do not aggressively move the piece of material. I don’t consider it, not much at least, except as a fine piece of shag I found at a dollar shop. It is purple with sparkles. It has accumulated some broken glass shards from the recent shatterment of S’s last gimlet glasses, the set of 6 she gave me years before she died, at a time when she recognized the boozer in me, my evolving attraction to the comfort food of Vodak. I keep shattering those glasses and stepping in tolerable bits of the debris. I feel prickly annoyances but not what I’d call pain. My tolerance for pain is high, both physically and emotionally. In this moment I absorb the pain of putting on socks that do not match. With this there is no pain. It is an invitation. Conversation piece. Where is the piece of rug going? Where is its destiny? Its density? I return to those words, the first one more or less genuine, the second one a faux sarcastical suggestion that a woman I met recently will become the destined and the densed. We will be dense. Densing. She will help move that piece of rug across my bathroom floor. Together we will move it faster, farther, harder, longer. That strip of rug will move.