She had blurred-out hands on a crispy, sentient thing-beast. I couldn’t stand to confront her. The eyes were round like ours but teeth, gnarled, wooden. I had an itch. This sort of thing made her mad and she stood holding the thing. “I can’t control my hands for too long,” she threatened. “I just hope I don’t get too tired – I might do something really lazy and irresponsible.” She made a gesture with her foot, like drawing a circle in the dirt. There was, all of a sudden, little circles of blood welling up in my eyes. Soon, it poured out like black milk from a chilled, ceramic coffee cup filled with black milk. “Why was this thing in the refrigerator,” I asked. She said I hadn’t had a refrigerator, that was only my head and eyes. I knew enough not to trust her; she just wanted to stand there and act like a old movie. This is great, I thought. But not really. We spent an afternoon there, in the sand, sinking. My eyes, bloody with black milk and this woman with fried hands.
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