The second time he’s on my doorstep I call the police. I wasn’t sure the first time, I had to be positive, but there it is- empty space where his neck should be, bottom of his head dangling loose veins, the jut of his spinal cord.
          Across the street a kid on a low-riding plastic bike rumbles over the sidewalk cracks. She locks eyes with me through the man’s hanging viscera, legs still pumping her bike forward. Hello Kitty hair bow.
          The man drips dark red clumps on the welcome mat. He says, “I need.” I say, “I’m not doing this again.”
          He doesn’t blink. He looks from me to the phone in my hand, the line ringing. He says, “Who will believe you?”
          He’s not wrong. Maybe I should change the story.

          I call the police the first time I see him- it would be suspect if I didn’t. Who sees something like that and keeps it hidden for a week, waiting for it to happen again? Crazy people. Crazy women.
          I call the police because there’s this neckless man on my doorstep at eight pm. Sun just now going down. He’s standing there, unmoving, unblinking. Big brown bag held at his side, something bowling ball-shaped outlined in the leather.
          He’s not bad-looking. Scruff around his jawline, slicked-back black hair. The smell of sulfur, unwashed musk. Sleeves rolled up his forearms. Hairy knuckles.
          I don’t fuck him. I swear to God- that wouldn’t make sense, right? Complicates it too much. If he kills me, if they find his still-warm dripping between my legs- I brought it upon myself.
          (Mom would say now why on Earth would you implicate yourself in this way? Why can’t you wait a bit, until the heartache settles. You don’t need to jump at the chance to slide under the first man you see. Watch more tv.)
          I definitely don’t hang up on 911 and fuck him, definitely don’t press him onto my kitchen floor, half-opened moving boxes all around us. I don’t unzip his khakis. He doesn’t let out a keen like a dying animal. He doesn’t say, “I need.”
          The drying machine doesn’t make a loud ding as I reach climax, his fingers between my legs rubbing, his unblinking eyes locked on the shaking of my chest. He doesn’t come right after. We don’t order curry from the place down the street.
          (Okay, fine. I do. We do.)
          It goes like:
          I’m a bottle deep into some nine dollar grocery store red with a little girl in pigtails on the label, levitating. I’m alone. Empty house. He rings the doorbell. I see him. I notice his hands.
          Long fingers. Veiny. Maybe he plays the piano in his free time, when he’s not walking around being . . . bloody and shit. God, do I have a thing for musicians.
I step back, swinging open the door. I’m not thinking. I’m warm.

          He takes his shoes off. Black leather work boots, thick gray socks. He grins up at me when he notices I’m staring at his feet.
          He says, “Usually they scream.”

          I shake my head. I wrap my arms around my torso. A hug. “I’m too curious.”
          He splays his arms out wide, standing in my kitchen with the bulb flickering above his head. A magician starting a show. Says, “Ask me anything.”
          “Just, like- how?”

          He laughs and steps closer, putting a palm on the counter and leaning towards me. Lips on the shell of my ear. “If I tell you-” and he unlaces my sweater- “I’d have to kill you.”
          I reach for the buttons of his shirt. “I suppose I’ve lived long enough.”

          He doesn’t tell me until he’s inside of me, nails driving red welts into the skin of my upper thighs. He explains. Sweat dripping down his forehead, blood clotting in the carpet. The woman across the street yells at her husband about the grocery store bill. I am not afraid. I flush, I open, I am taking another broken man inside me. I will make him forget all of it. Everything that ever hurt.

          I didn’t think he’d come back after that. One night stand etiquette- don’t contact me ever again for the rest of your life. Stalk me on Facebook, sure, but lose my address. However he found me in the first place.
          So when he comes back, same leather bag, same shoes- I don’t hang up on 911 this time. I slam the door in his face, lock it, and run for the bathroom. Slam this door too. Lock it. Breathe in, out. In.
          The cop on the other end of the line has the voice of a chainsmoker and coughs after every three words, a wet heaving.
          He says, “Are you positive you’ve never met this man before?”

          I nod for no reason–it’s not like he can see me crouched on the hair-covered floor, ears rapt for any sort of wiggling doorknob. There’s no way he’d kick the door in–right?
         I say, “Positive. Never.”
         “Ma’am. Is he an ex, an old lover?”
         “No.”
         “I hate to ask this. Believe me. But is there anyone who,” he stops to cough, “may want to hurt you?”
          Take stock. Let’s see what we have. Jake. I slashed his tires.
          Rishab. Slept with his sister.
          Matt. He never really told me what went wrong, but it was probably–Vegas. He’s likely not over that.
          Raymond: smashed his mom’s antique China. Krishna: that time with the tequila, the sky pink like cotton candy, bugs in my mouth. I held her against the inside of the tent as she shook, as her legs convulsed. Psychedelic cacti, thorns in our mouths. Jules. Heather. James.
          This isn’t like any of them. They wouldn’t send somebody after me. Not like- not like this.
          I say, “No one.”
          The cop says, “Are you doing anything that would warrant his presence outside your property?”
          It was one time. It was one time. I didn’t think I’d see him again. I thought it was a fever dream. I was drunk. I’d been crying. You ever get that itch down there, that extra awareness of the empty space your body holds, the open air? I wanted something to hold. I didn’t care who.
          I say, “No. That question doesn’t make any sense.”
          “Don’t get curt with me, young lady.”
          “I’m not ‘getting curt.’”
          Mr. Cop coughs. He says, “We’ll file your complaint tonight. May take a couple weeks.”
          “Weeks?”
          “Procedure takes time, miss.”
          “He’s still outside.” I peek through the tiny window above the toilet. I can’t see the front porch. Only that lady across the street, tending to her sunflowers. “Is there any way an officer could park outside my house?”
          “Has this man hurt you in any way?”
          “No, but it seems like he-”
          “Has he put his hands on you?”
          “He never touched me,” I say. “But he looks like he wants to hurt me.”
          “Are you under the influence of alcohol or drugs at this moment in time?”
          “Jesus. No. I swear to God I’m not making this up, there’s a neckless man outside-”
          “Has he threatened you verbally?”
          Yes, in a way. Who will believe you? Who will believe? I say, “No. You have to believe me. I don’t have time.”
          “If this man is not an immediate threat there’s nothing I can do for you, ma’am. Thanks for contacting us- we’ll get back to you shortly.”
          I start to say, “It doesn’t damn sound like ‘shortly’,” but he hangs up. Ringing in my ears.
          The sun’s under the hills now, sky a dark red blush. I creep downstairs. I check the locks on the front door once, twice. Back door. Basement door with its creaking hinges. Locked. The windows on every floor, locked.
          I don’t dare look through the front door keyhole. I close my eyes and see him there, standing on my welcome mat, locking gazes with me through the glass. The lack of blinking. The empty space above his torso where his neck should be.