What it means

Guy takes me to a house, and I don't even know why I agree to go with him, except I have nothing better to do, what with not having to work today, and without having anything to fill my days, so I go with him, to a house on the outskirts of the outskirts, in a cul-de-sac covered in trees and shrubs in need of manicures, lawn ornaments, fences, long driveways, dogs tied to trees with tennis balls in their mouths, or bones, and we go into the house and we walk from one room into another, around one person, into the kitchen, where I see these butter knives, and I know that I must have them, feel with my entire being that I must take them home with me, but that I must not use them, ever, and Guy moves on into another part of the house while I pick up the knives, remember the one I stole, and why did I steal it? and why do I want these knives? why do I feel that I must have them but must not use them to spread butter? and I gather them into my hands and pay for them, two dollars, and I put them in my pocket and when Guy comes back, with some knickknacks under his arms, some albums, a paperweight, a poster, a picture frame, and a koozie, he asks if I'm going to get anything, and I say no, no that I will not get anything, and he asks: How will we be able to sell nothing? I say, I don't know if I'm going to sell anything, and he pays and we drive back to my house, and I say goodbye to Guy, who says that he is going to sell what he's bought and if I want, I can join him to see what it "all about" and then he drives away and I make my way into my bedroom and take out the knives and place them on the pillowcase and crawl into the bed, beside them, looking at them, wondering what I'm doing, why I am like this, and I love them, and I will take care of them, good care of them, and I will never sell them, and I wonder how anyone could let them go, and for two dollars! I pick one up and pretend to spread something in my palm, a nice, cool butter in my palm and I spread and I spread, and I watch the knife move and do its thing, and it is doing it nicely and I set it down and I pick up another one and spread something, a nice, creamy butter onto my other hand, and then I set it down, and I am feeling something, something so strange and this must be what it means to be alone--to spread imaginary butter onto your hands in a bed on a Saturday afternoon, yes, this is what it must mean.