On my thirty-eighth birthday, I had vivid daydreams of lying back in an ergonomic chair, with stretched out legs - my head inclined backwards just so. Magical vibrations, twelve adjustments and pockets in the side.

Bart handed me a small box and a cuticle scissors.

"This is really something," I said. I meant the way the wrapping looked, so colorful and with polka-dots.

He snorted. "Well, open it."

It opened easily. A pendant shaped like a penis. I stretched it out with my arm to see it glisten.

The label said, "Mistress Mismo".

Bart told me that it was crafted by hand in Nova Scotia. His bitter breath smelled worried, surrounded me like a bracelet.

"Made from the jelly of bugs," he said. He sighed. I also sighed.

Bart was just right for me when we were at the beach, watching the colored BMW convertibles drive by, drinking beer from the cooler.

"Amber!" he barked, as if he heard someone at the door, and wanted to flick her away. I listened, but nothing. There were no trespassers. Ever.

"It is that dream of the dog at the door again," I said.

"Isn't it?"