Among my few character flaws is a certain irresistable, cyclical attraction to self-help books. Every now and then I buy a few, read them, believe them whole-heartedly, fail to implement them and, finally, forget them. Which is just as well because, face it, people never change, do we?

I mean, you can change what you do, but not who you are, deep down. And it’s who I am, deep down, that really truly bugs me, you know.

Oh, before I forget, to the small lady on the hot, crowded subway with her head stuck in some guy’s armpit: whew, I know; I apologize; but I am allergic to every deodorant I’ve found so far, they make my armpits itch horribly so I can’t use them. Sorry!

And this one self-help book — which I’m liking so far since it admits you can’t change another person or a relationship, just yourself, assuming that is that you can change yourself which you of course can’t (see above), but which I won’t name here as it’s a bit academic in parts and also, I haven’t finished it yet so I won’t mention it yet but I promise to later if it works, which I doubt — mentioned sexual fantasies, and what they can, sometimes, tell about you.

And I asked myself, have I ever really had a sexual fantasy? Normally, I wouldn’t ask myself that but traffic was fairly light on the freeway and now that they’ve installed these computerized spy cameras everywhere here that photograph your license plates and calculate your average speed people have been going the speed limit here, which is a real miracle in Austria so it seemed safe to pursue the line of thought.

Have I? Fantasies? Day-dreams?

No. I’ve never had a sexual fantasy, not once in my life. Before I met my wife, I might have seen a woman walking down the sidewalk and thought, “gosh, she’s really fucking hot!” But that’s not a fantasy.

My visual imagination really sucks, maybe that’s part of it. And, in writing, I’m not very good at coming up with a plot, either. Maybe it’s some deficiency hardwired into my brain. So I decided to try to have a sexual fantasy right there, going 130 KpH on the freeway.

Do I have any fetishes? Let’s see. Art supplies. I really, really like art supplies. So it’ll be at an art supply store. I’m working there, late at night. It’s an all-night art supply store, you see.

My co-worker is a woman from Dublin, pale skin, sexy Irish accent, smart as hell, glasses. Black hair. Bangs – hell, it’s my fantasy, she has bangs. Business is slow. “Let’s go into the back room and see if there’s any, uh, more coffee in the Thermos,” I say. “That’d be grand,” she says.

Since this is a fantasy, another woman shows up. We’re all there in the back room – the women are already naked – and the bell over the front door rings. Someone has come in.

“Are ye thick? Go get it,” says the Irish woman. “Gobshite,” says the other one. I’d forgotten how sharp-tongued they can be.

So I do. They carry on without me. I hear the door lock as I go out front.

But, being my fantasy, it’s Charlize Theron. Wearing a swarm of bees. She looks around for Conte crayons in a specific shade of grey. I help her look. We go up and down the rows. She emits a gentle breeze and humming sound as the bees fan their wings to maintain a constant temperature.

We don’t appear to have the shade of grey Conte crayon she’s looking for in stock so she leaves.

I sit at the cash register for the rest of the night, freezing flies with propellant sprayed from an aerosol lens-cleaner can held upside-down, lining them up along the edge of the counter and watching them thaw out, shake their heads groggily and then fly off unsteadily, one after the next, but no more customers come in all night.