Does she put her finger up your ass on a subway train, empty but for the two of you, on a plastic seat, on a Saturday, on a whim?

Does she say "Hero, long and long and long have you struggled, now close your eyes, and I shall tell the story of the crocodile and the man who doubted his left hand"?

Does she whisper "Vienna?" then walk off into a dirty drizzle, leaving you standing, leaving you caught between the memory of a crippling kick and the gentle fall of a leaf?

I believe it hates me.