It gets worse.

The next day, I was still on that bathroom floor, but this time it was not so whimsical. Too homebound to retrieve the litter scoop from my car's trunk, I dug in the ammoniac sawdust of the catbox with a badly burned piece of toast, rooting out a fresh deposit as Orlando looked on, cockeyed and curious. Dishes mounted in the sink. Torrential rain had called off work once again. Shuffling room to room in my dingy bathrobe, surprising the neighbors with short bouts of half-clothed calisthenics, I resembled nothing so much as a grown bachelor twice my age, biding time before my shows.

The day Ilena left, I was like an adolescent boy who'd come across some crude philosopher's stone--it all came back to me in a rush, the rub of my flesh against worn cotton as I left the airport, the dozen near deaths as I drove one-handed around the crippling curves of Barren Creek, the ejaculate, finally, sweet liquid pearls who shocked me with their volume. The novelty faded quickly. Now my limp johnathan nodded sadly against the belt of my loose robe as I ate bowl after bowl of cold cereal.