When I roll out of bed to shut off an alarm that is across the room, I kick the facing wall. I should have taken the ramp.
As I toast a muffin, I open kitchen cupboards. One shelf is sprinkled with what I first believe to be chocolate chips. I realize what they are. I make a note about D-con.
The claw-foot tub, if it were a human, would have the biggest port wine stain documented. It also looks a little lame in one paw. Water from the showerhead is the color of apple cider. The bathroom light fixture is encircled by a scorch mark of recent vintage. I remind myself where the fire exit is. I force silver hoops through ear holes nearly healed, pierced on my fortieth birthday at Andy’s urging: “I can’t, working where I do, but you should.” That was his general axiom: get away with it if you
