In a Workshop, a Novelist with a National Book Award tells me that my writing is a lot like Haruki Murakami's, and it will be years before someone else tells me that this is not a good thing. For now, however, with a ballpoint pen, the Novelist taps at my pages, finding those places of mine that sound like someone else. "Look," he says, with a smile. "Like here. Like there." Months later, as we are falling in Love, I show you what I turned in, back then, to the Novelist. You tell me that you like it, that it really does remind you of that Writer. In bed, we are talking about "Barn Burning," from a Book I pulled for you from a stack on my hardwood floor, and someday, you will leave me and take it with you. In the meantime of those years, I will wonder if you still have it, in your possession, and Read it from time to time, or if you will have already tossed it to rid yourself of Me entirely. For now, however, we are lying together, and your fingers are finding their way into mine. You ask me to write a Story about us. "Something like Haruki Murakami," you say, with a grin. I write Something and then show it to you. It is vulgar, and unbecoming, and not Something that anyone should Read, and I hope that no one else in the World ever will. Someday, I will delete it, along with your emails, our pictures, and everything else that had to do with us, and then it will really be gone. For now, however, you are Reading it and laughing aloud, and so am I, and we are still completely in Love in a way that doesn't make any Sense at all.