The refrigerator door opens. Mr. Green climbs out. There are three pieces missing from his heart: the wall of the right atrium, a portion of the left ventricle, and above that, the pulmonary valve. His lungs have been removed and she can see his bronchial tree, spreading out like roots on either side of the aorta; a set of skeletal wings, bare branches. She glances over at Fred, who is speaking to her.

“I’ve come to take my snake home.”

“He likes to hide,” she says. “You’ll have to wait until he comes out. I’m cooking. Would you like some?” And Fred says yes.

She decides to fry. On the chopping block the snake meat is soon in pieces. She dips them in buttermilk, rolls them in flour, throws them in a pan while Fred looks around the apartment, takes the seat cushions off the couch, pokes at a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Mr. Green watches all of this, amused.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Fred sits at the small table in her kitchen. He is uncomfortable. She can tell. But he does not seem to notice that Mr. Green is sitting across from him, scratching the hole where his ear used to be with the bone of his finger. Is there lipstick on her teeth? She runs her tongue over them. She hands Fred a plate.

The fried snake is greasy. She has arranged it on lettuce. Mr. Green leans over and steals a bit of meat. He has no stomach; the food travels right through him and lands on the floor. When the lab partner takes his heart, he will be nothing but bones. Still he continues to snatch the pieces away, until a small store builds beneath his chair.

Fred spears the snake with his fork. He turns it over and inspects it before tasting. She stands next to him with her apron on, waiting for him to swallow. He takes his time. He chews. She can see his throat constrict. The piece goes down and Fred looks at her, surprised. He says, “This is good.”

Gallus, Gallus

gallus, gallus

Alan Perkin was a short, balding man who was very good at getting other people to do things for him. He had, for example, never learned to tie his shoes. As a boy, his mother had crouched each morning by his feet as he ate his breakfast, threaded the eyelets on his leather uppers, and pulled the laces together in a bow. When Alan Perkin married, his wife took on this responsibility and dutifully performed it every morning after breakfast. If, by chance, one of his shoes became untied during the day, Alan Perkin would politely ask someone standing close by to do it for him. By the time he had reached the age of thirty, nearly everyone in town had tied Alan Perkin’s shoes at one time or another.