A friend told me he’d been out walking his dog past my building the other day and had noticed a ladder set up to my second-floor balcony.

“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”

A ladder to my apartment. Who could it be? A thief? My superhero lover Fernando of Texas? riding his horse up the ladder to lay roses at my feet and fuck me silly? Maybe the super...

Then it occurred to me that apart from the ability to spy on the street and from the balcony lure men into my lair, some books, an astounding wardrobe, cutlery, and me, my apartment has nothing of value anyone could steal.