When you have all these moths, and you're wondering what all these moths are going to do, it's worth remembering that fate is the thing in your ear that says, "Ha! I'm in your ear now." I'm more worried about the thing on my foot.
   The milkman's name is Fred and his broom stick is a Doberman, and he wants to give up being a witch and focus on being a milkman, but he doesn't want to disappoint his wife again. I asked him about the thing on my foot. I thought he might know something about it, as a witch, not as a milkman, but he just left me alone with his wife.
   She often pretended to be someone else because it didn't feel right when she pretended to be someone she was. Thursdays bring hats and scarves, and they always help her pretend to be someone else. Fridays bring coffee. The dogs come around every Monday on this merry-go-round of days. They always look surprised.
   She said that something might arrive on Sunday that could help with my foot, but all that arrived was a cake. She was pretending to be a French actress on Sunday. We went to a museum of people holding their hands in the air and singing sighing songs. The songs and the hands seemed to contradict each other. Their eyes sided with the songs.
   We stood outside in the late afternoon, facing the sun, singing songs with our hands in the air. The thing in my ear hummed along, and it didn't seem so sad. I completely forgot about the thing on my foot. That was the beginning of our brief affair, and it ended an hour later when Fred and his broom stick walked into a room. I convinced him that I was having an affair with a French actress and I left. We'll all meet again some faraway day at the edge of the Arctic Circle, because we're afraid. Of pandas. And whatever the moths are going to do, it'll be an anti-climax.