She wanted to throw the fleas out, just kill them and destroy them. Even wanted to burn the towel. I gave her the cat, took the towel out to the backyard, saying I’d take care of it, like I was the manly, capable, impulsively chivalrous type. When in reality I turned left at the bins, opened the door to the shed. Pulled the sheet off a tiny bigtop tent. I stood for a moment, admiring the candy-stripes I’d painted laboriously by hand. I placed the towel down on the bench carefully, opened it up, scouring for acrobats, clowns, trapeze artists. And the ringmaster, who I knew would have a miniscule but massively impressive moustache.