The airlock reduces its pressure. Getting home –– I find Billy sitting in his morning gown. I stick my head out the window. Cold beer in the refrigerator. T-shirt on clotheslines wrapped around cool breeze. I am on my way back to the dresser. Bath towel around my waist. I cannot be bothered changing. I do not have to wash. Billy indicates that you are required to be in a trance. You say you wish to override this contract. You have rights –– lawyers you know. That makes Billy unwell. Billy is my husband. I am not so sure about these terms. Not so sure about what I am thinking about with these terms. I’m not so sure about what I’m reading. I’m not sure about that either. It isn’t just any term. I’m not saying it’s not. I’m not saying anything. I’m not sure of anything. This is a word. I don’t know about the last one. I’m talking about something. Something doesn’t make sense here. I don’t feel any pain. I hear no voices. I don’t remember any memories of a car crash in New York. I just sit in this chair –– in this lobby –– staring at a wet towel. How many patients have I treated? My hands are cold –– but my palms aren’t sweaty. I’m still inside the apartment. I look into the kitchen. There are clothes scattered across the floor. I walk over to where they are –– a white tee-shirt –– black boxer shorts –– a red plaid shirt. None of the clothes are mine. They haven’t been washed –– but they smell clean. How long do I think they’ve been there? I don’t remember his name. Someone turns on the lights. Someone else turns on the television. The television has a white rectangle covering one-third of the screen. Billy waves a weapon. A weapon with a rectangular barrel. A man –– pointing a gun. I collect symptoms. Hypochondriac. Fake illness padlocked to welcoming light. Antihypertensive. Cardiovascular medications. Ripped stockings. A better diagnosis is imperative. I end up embarrassing Billy. He is embarrassed when I blunder obscenities. My knees jerk. I step forward on quivering knees. Billy pulls me to the elevator. My left foot sinks into an oozing floor tile. My head hits the door as we ride up from the lobby. Wear a skirt –– T-shirt –– blouse and heels or jeans –– T-shirt –– hoodie –– boots he informs me. Include a flower in your hair. Don’t be late. If you’re late –– Billy will have left. Be confident and speak as if your opinions matter. How should I approach Billy now? He infuriates me. He further rubbishes my symptoms. The elevator isn’t working he tells me. There’s a row of mailboxes. No further concentration required. When you see Billy tell him you saw him at the party. Keep your mouth shut. Say nothing if Billy says nothing. Billy has a beard –– a tattoo on his right arm –– a tattoo on his head. He has a ponytail. Billy has a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I enter the lobby. The parents continue to spin. My response is limited. I break the glass bottle. The rim of one of the broken pieces feels warm. So does the floor rug. Problems of psychosis listed online. My skin is flushed from the cold. My feet are numb. My hands are blisters. My nose feels warm. Billy knows I haven’t been sleeping. What have you been doing he asks me. I don’t know. He is silent. My hand is cold to the touch. He asks me to show him the rash. It’s my brain. My nose and face feel puffy. I lie on the floor of the elevator and press buttons and hit the emergency stop. My rib cage protrudes. My spine grabs a freshly pressed bath towel. I watch the towel snake around my legs. I get wet. I don’t feel warm. A cold sweat is breaking out. I get home. The mail I collected –– the broken glass. I clean it up. I wash myself with soapy hands. The towel is removed. I’m naked. I’m in bed. Someone has been in the bed. I sit in my bed in a warm room. I sit with my hands folded on my stomach. The cat is licking my toes. The cat can’t reach my toes. If the cat wants to lick my toes –– it needs a ladder. On the floor –– I am calm. No one hears me. My husband is with a woman in a hotel hallway. He’s talking with her. She isn’t wearing a nightgown. She isn’t wearing pants. I lie in the dust of the elevator and press buttons and hit the emergency stop. A hand towel wrapped around legs. I reach for the towel that’s near me. The floor begins to slither. I begin to feel nauseated. When can I visit Billy? He can’t handle visits –– his mother tells me. She says they’re a drain on her. Billy is an invalid. He’s in a coma. His mother tells me –– Billy is in the nuthouse. It’s time to leave. I’ve no time to waste. I exit the building. Billy waits for the elevator behind me. In the lobby –– I’m jostled by the crowd. I feel Billy grab my hand. I shake my head. I need to leave. I move into the street. I know the direction. It’s time to leave. The world seems unreal. No longer is the pavement even. I look up and see the sky. The streetlights –– fire escapes –– traffic signs appear –– not as concrete but as smoke. I look down and see myself. My skin is red and raw. It resembles a rash. I am no longer dressed as a man. I am myself –– and I am naked. Billy’s hands tighten around my wrist. I see one of the aeroplanes fall out of the sky. Billy grabbed the handgun –– he is shooting for a brighter tomorrow. My skin melts and my bones shift. It is time to leave –– time to go. The whole thing began –– as you can imagine –– with a slight headache –– a slight chill –– a slight shivering.