There was a string, pink and long, slung between two barstools. Tuesday the bar emptied early but someone left a string. It was loose when I touched it. I tightened it up nicely. So tight a stool fell over. Stop playing with stools said the bar woman with her eyes. Brows frowned. I left the string alone and never touched it again. But I thought about it. That night I left the window open and cool air flooded over my bare skin. I thought about the string, pink and soft, spread between two stools. My sweat chilled me so I shut the window. I had strange dreams. I was a scissor and the string wrapped around my blades. I wanted to cut the string, snip it in two, but I couldn’t, in the dream, because the string was around me. I woke tense.