We just went around my beloved’s apartment following a ritual of our own making. It was invented on the spot, too. Walking in measured steps, I went ahead with a burning stick of incense raised high. She went behind me with a metal ashtray and a spoon, which she kept striking against the ashtray. Ding-ding-ding, ding-ding-ding. I was dressed and she was stark naked. We went from room to room, including the erstwhile pantry that now lodges the washing machine, as well as the loggia facing the backyard. When we were finished, we yelped and kissed. “Purifying the house,” my beloved commented cheerfully. “Yup,” I jumped in, “we could do this in place of silly old priests.” This was the very first time we had observed the ritual, and most likely the last. Whatever happened afterwards, though, is nobody else’s business.