I have seen lesser gods dancing on my street. I have asked for their names.

Come again?

The water for the tea is boiling. I hope you don't mind, but I need to leave. I hope you don't mind. I really hope you don't mind. I will stay, I will continue this conversation, but you can't hold it against me.

You don't believe me.

I have heard the wind patter the leaves at my doorstep like the footsteps of tree children playing.

I am nowhere near death. Why do you ask?

This is not about dying.

I have wanted to say this ever since I first saw you. The way you apply your mascara reminds me of my cat, a cheap tabby named Alexis. She ran away. The sight of you reminds me, no it's not your fault.

My knuckles are red from knocking. The door does not unhinge. I suppose that isn't strange.

The gods are the street have betrayed my humanity. The demand that I spend the night in my house watching the cars rush past my house. But I will not listen, I say, as I dip my hand into the boiling water. Look at how the tea steeps.

Would you like a drink?