Eighty-seven clicks during which I have stared at a water stain shaped like Oregon and thought aboutthe fact that there is an eight-foot sentient slime somewhere in my house, and that three hours ago he made me come so hard I forgot my own middle name.
It’s Louise.
I remember now.
I roll over on the couch and pull the sheet up to my chin.
I have a perfectly good bed, but ever since my back started spasming in the middle of the night, I’ve found this couch to be the only place I can sleep.
But tonight, nothing in my body hurts.
It’s strange.
Good-strange.
My body is loose in places that have been rusted shut for months.
My lower back, the spot that seized up in the studio, is a warm hum instead of its usual ice pick.
My shoulders sit where shoulders are supposed to sit, rather than somewhere around my ears.
I press my face into the pillow.
Somewhere beyond the living room, something clicks.
A soft, wet sound, then a mechanical hum.
The refrigerator.
I lie still for another three clicks of the ceiling fan.
Then I push the sheet off and swing my legs over the cushions and stand.
The hallway is dark.
I walk barefoot over cool tile, wearing an oversized shirt that hits mid-thigh specifically because walking around in my underwear while a strange monster explores your kitchen feels like a line I should draw somewhere.
The light from the refrigerator spills across the floor in a pale rectangle, and in front of it, crouched in a shape that is almost but not quite human, Oz is staring at a piece of leftover pizza like it contains the secrets of the universe.
His surface catches the fridge light and refracts it like sunlight moving across water.
He’s holding a pizza slice at eye level, if he had eyes in the traditional sense.
The two luminous patches where eyes would be are fixed on the cheese with the intensity of a jeweler appraising a diamond.
“That’s from last Saturday,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s not going to get better with scrutiny.”
He doesn’t startle. He simply turns toward me at the speed of honey, and the gold threads on his surface brighten.
“It’s undergone many rapid changes in temperature,” he says. “From the oven, then into the box, then into the refrigerator, it became something different. The fats solidified. The structure reorganized.” He tilts the slice. “Is this still food?”
“Technically.” I cross my arms, then uncross them because the posture feels defensive and I don’t know what I’m defending against.
A slime holding cold pepperoni pizza in my kitchen at one in the morning?
Sure.
“Most people reheat it,” I continue. “Some people eat it cold. It’s a whole personality divide, actually.”
