Steven Cramer

The message I found on the Post-it note went thus: love truth; expect to be found out. Kid-style capitals proved I wrote it, but left no clue why I'd swelled into a fat clause no editor could edit; then, an entry on a shrink's list of patient slang for sex— her desk Norwegian teak, the mug of tea on which she had affixed her Post-it notes hot against her knuckle, their lips of stickum loosening . . . And yet, I knew the note to peel away at hour's end would terminate our sessions—cool as the draft her linen skirt was lifting to: Love, just stay benighted, given everything I know you've got to hide.