A
Last week I set fire to your library. You came in and watched, silent like a dormouse, like a librarian. Shelf by shelf the volumes were engulfed. Those dusty crackling flames scarred the copper ceiling. They left stains I’ll never get out.

K
We don’t have sun porches in Vienna. We never did. In German a sun porch might be a sonnevorbau, at least that’s what I would call it, but since we don’t have them, the word doesn’t exist.

A
And then I undress you. First I remove your jacket, then your pocket watch, then your vest. I unbuckle your shoes, left then right, remove your belt, unbutton your fly, pull down your pants, peel off your bloomers. I say Here are your pyjamas, sir. Be so kind as to put them on. Be so kind sir, it is time for bed.

K
Some might say balkone, but that wouldn’t be right either. In the mountains you might perhaps see them, those balkones, in the mountains at sanitariums full of coughed up blood and drying lungs, but not in Vienna. Never in Vienna.

A
You say, It is time for my walk, thank you very much, time for my evening constitutional.

K
It is time for my evening constitutional.

A
I say, But Sir, in this state, now, given the circumstances, given the condition of your…person, would it really be proper to step out for an evening constitutional? Just stretch out I say, stretch out on the divan, yes, right here, next to me, we’ll pretend we’re on our very own sonnevorbau, pretend we live in a land without masters or servants or books that thrive under flame.

ANDY BRAGEN