The olives, which once fell perfectly into the crease of my hand, no longer fit. The olive pits tasted of bubble gum. The coconut chunks were too tender; the chairs became flammable. The ice wouldn’t melt, not after a day or after an hour. I dreamt of air balloons. The prescribed pills were more effective; they eased my anxiety and my depression.

The automobile changed models. It got me where I needed to be, but the model changed, and every time I drove the amenities differed, the buttons shifted, the heated seats came and went. One day my legs would be warmed, the next day they would not.

The hedges grew too quickly, even though they were trimmed every week. The condiments didn’t expire; the canned foods didn’t expire. The soup came with a sunny side egg on top, superb. The cherry tomatoes were not red but yellow. Everything that went in my mouth was covered in honey, thyme, fennel seeds, maple syrup, ground ginger, lime. The knives and the pizza cutter were sharpened, they cut through anything, they cut through my left thumb, I felt it slice through completely and felt the blood bubble up. I pressed. I put all the pressure I could on it. The skin was flapping around. I washed the dishes with one hand; with one hand I dried the dishes. I ate the yellow cherry tomatoes, and everything was sharp.

POOL

The seasoning must go under the skin, it must get under your nails, Mya said. The wind had picked up and was moving the back of her taupe shirt, or the beige shirt, waving it around and filling it up like a balloon. Beige or taupe, but it was her hair moving around her forehead that stood out, too short to be incorporated into a ponytail. The lights moved across her face and I was hardly listening to this suggestion, about the seasoning going under the skin of the animal. I couldn’t focus on it, it’s true, I wasn’t listening. I was looking at her forehead and at the hair around the edges, keen.

I did that for a while. Noticing how it moved around her forehead. What I heard when I began to listen again were instructions for making rose water—pull the petals off like an artichoke, in a saucepan combine water and these lost petals, boil them, simmer them. This interested me so I listened to the instructions, when ready, Mya said, the water will be tinted, light, the petals will be worn. When she spoke her tongue came between her teeth; she had a lisp.