Before sunrise, I collected the Sunday ads and thumbed through the pages of models I’d seen in my friend’s catalog stored between his mattress and frame; women wore bras with elegant black letters scrawled across the page, Limited Time Offer never touching their skin. But it was the men who excited me. Like a magician, I severed waists from torsos, cut out pairs of briefs with left-handed scissors and pressed my thumb against their cotton daggers. Just below their necks I sawed again, took the faces beardless, square-jawed, and pasted them onto broad shoulders whose trapezius muscles rose like pyramids I imagined climbing, navigating the constellations of bodies spread across the sky blue sheets on my bed. I rolled out the glue stick from its sheath, the white tip of a magic wand that could attach the wide shoulders of Hanes models onto lean torsos of the Fruit of the Loom models and align their waists with the briefs and legs of the Cheetah models. I knew to hide these men inside the pages of my dictionary, though words clung to the wet curves of their bodies like newspaper ink on my hands, headlines and stories stained on my skin.