LAST NIGHT I dreamt of Kärt and Anselmo, her Latin husband. We were at their penthouse in the city. It was late morning and Kärt was sprawled out nude in her bed, engulfed in crisp, white sheets. The sun was through the window on the sheets and illuminating her boughs of wild golden hair. I was kneeling beside the bed suckling on one of Kärt’s breasts while she took part in a Teams meeting via her phone. Then, on occasion, Kärt would get thirsty and dispatch me to fetch her some water or coffee, which I would only too gladly do, while Anselmo would enter, tying his tie for work, and take his turn kneeling on the opposite side of the bed, and being attentive to Kärt’s other white breast. My breast was her right breast. Never did I venture over to the left. That was Anselmo’s territory. Likewise, he never took her right nipple in his mouth. This went on like this for some time, the jug worshipping, until it was time for us to both leave. Anselmo had ignored me for the entirety of this exercise (other than to lecture, as if to a spellbound audience, that visitors had to keep their hands above the sheets, that is, only breast licking was permitted in the penthouse and nothing more). At the door though, Anselmo for the first time turned to me and asked, “But what do you think, can a man really not have faith in himself?” It was a very serious question and he looked me in the eyes as he asked it to me. To which I replied, “Well, if he has done all that he can and it still doesn’t work out, I suppose a man has reasons to doubt himself.” Anselmo nodded repetitively as if making a series of calculations. “Defeatist,” is all Anselmo could reply. “Defeatist, defeatist, defeatist!” He marched out the door with his briefcase in hand.