“Now yer talkin’,” he encouraged, his barometer displaying his corporeal elation.

“Keep on truckin’, yeah baby, yeah baby, yeah baby …”

I pushed grains of corn into the mess. A fly landed on his buttocks to share the feast. Unfortunately, his skin was tougher than leather; his meat, compact and unyielding so that my jaw ached. All at once, the shopkeeper’s body underwent a great spasm. I tried again, this time with all my might. The rage on his face was the last thing I remember.

CHAPTER 22

When I regained consciousness, the globe was inches from my face. I squinted into the paper ocean. The lines, where man attempts to organize the wild seas into handsome squares, wavered and made me seasick. North America was the victim of a dent; it looked as if an asteroid had collided into its flanks, giving it the forced curve of a corseted lady.

My heart had migrated to my head, and every thump gave me pain. When I finally moved, something rolled off my chest and struck the floor with an ear-splitting clink. It was the bottle of white cooking wine with a note inside; it reminded me of a bottle one casts into the sea in desperation. I shook the bottle every which way, but the paper stuck to the side and I was forced to read it through the green glass: “You’r gonna pay bitch.”

The daylight shone in through the window and left a blank visiting-card on the floor. With my bare toes, I expected to rake up a ball of dust and hairs, when I started at a clammy texture. I advanced to the thing, my nose practically upon it. It was the shape of a horseshoe, though smaller, and its edges had tooth marks.

I sprang up and threw it in a pot. I couldn’t wait for the hob to get hot. The curry rose like oriental incense, a yellow smoke teasing me, intoxicating me. As expected, the hardened cream-cheese slid from side to side, softening, liquefying until it reached a state of erupting bubbles. I scraped and scraped the bottom of the pot with a spoon. I couldn’t believe it. There was no meat, no skin in there, nothing!

I paced back and forth, cursed. I put my hand in the garbage disposal. Not even a last string I could chew to get the taste of the roast it had been in contact with. I stumbled around and cursed more. Pulled my hair. Lowered my own finger into the pot and burnt my fingerprint. I sucked my fingertip, reflecting how my own taste differed only minutely from another’s.

I set the pot on the floor and attempted to lower my buttocks inside. The pot’s edge branded a circle around them. It helped not to insist, I would never get inside. The hob was a glowing red plate. How tempting it would be for me to sit upon it, to smell the aroma of my own cooking meats, to feel them snap and sizzle, to watch the cloud of gases that would rise from them … Yes, yes, yes, I would taste a small piece of myself …