There is a night-time gardener beside the house with the year-round Christmas tree in its window. The night-time gardener wears a headlamp which helps him see as he kneels in the dirt over something green, and so he does not look up when I walk past, staring openly at his illuminated crumpledness.
Earlier today, I tell a friend I was having an affair. Really, the affair had me. And when I say it, I feel nothing, like the Christmas tree in the window does nothing for the gardener in the dirt. I hope someone takes it down soon.