I recoiled from the image—not so much the image itself as the threshold crossing that it seemed to signify. We were no longer awestruck strangers watching a dancing fountain, or new lovers perched fifteen stories above Boston. Now we were talking about our bug infestations. His notes made me itch. It was as if his little bugs were powerful enough to reach my brick row house across the country. I was no longer sure I wanted him that close.
