When I woke up this morning with a strange woman in my bed, I told her she wasn’t there and had to leave. She quickly poked holes in my logic, but I was adamant. “Let me make some coffee,” she said, “and tell you a story.” She’s still here. She’s worse than an old Japanese film when it comes to ending a story. When she’s not looking, I throw a knife or a pair of scissors out the window, and I’m keeping an eye on how she files her nails.