I am driving an ungainly large car through suburban streets made strange by winter's early nightfall. I am looking for a floppy boy with dark hair. It is a small comfort that I am passing any number of them, just none the one I need to find right now, the one who has again gotten bored, or frustrated, or impatient, and caused himself to disappear. Back at home the smell of simmering green peppers and anger has made me lose my appetite. The heat comes on, and I start to sneeze. My eyes well up and I go to bed early listening to the local stumbling public radio station. If there has been an accord made in the house, I will not learn of it until morning.