The red dirt is the worst. It tastes just like you would think, bitter and salty. The golden dirt just tastes like dust. You know what I mean. The sandy dirt crunches between my teeth, tasting of salt and minerals. Brown dirt is overly metallic. It reminds me of biting into aluminum. Oh, but the black soil. The black soil is the very best.

Of course I know Beau Brummell is a brand of ties. The box gave it away as soon as Michael handed it over. That made it all the worse. Not the tie, exactly. Just the fact that they somehow thought this tie was the winner. Like some fancy label would do the trick. Don’t they know me better than that? I can’t blame the children. But Carol? Why did she have to bring the children into all of this?

Icebergs fascinated me. The shimmering green stripes magically appearing in the deep blue. I always wanted eyes that colour. I was stuck with sullen gray eyes. Lester and Minnie went to Hawaii to see the volcano. Minnie couldn’t stop talking about them. She even had one as her screen saver. Volcanoes didn’t interest me.

I sat in my deluxe room on the cruise ship untwisting the towel shaped swans that appeared every single damn day on the king-sized bed. I couldn’t get the maids to stop leaving them.

As usual, opposites had attracted, and a sweet gesture of kindness, “I’ll bring you a chair,” opened a doorway that couldn’t shut. A solid hour of close talking, an intimate interchange at a dreary dinner party. Swayed by olive eyes, you couldn’t resist honing in, playing along, quick quips, clever swipes. You set the stage, you wrote the rising action, and there was no real way to decelerate.

You must know the nurses stole the masks, such selfish heathens, and that’s why there aren’t enough. But you shouldn’t wear one anyways—aren’t you an American? Fight for your rights, your freedom to spread contagion.