I do not know why I am unbuttoning my shirt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. How quickly memories shelve into one another, like shale reassembling itself. On the other side of the street, two newlyweds descend the church stairs while their loved ones pelt them with caviar. I realize that caviar is actually black—and not white—so it may just be rice after all. The only woman who has ever loved me is four stops away on the L train, and she wants nothing to do with me. Now I am unbuttoning the skin covering my chest. I hear a dog whistle from three blocks away; it is so loud that one of my ears is bleeding—though I cannot tell which one. It sounds like someone is also blowing a dog whistle nearby; I can hear that too, but it is faint and no bother to me. I have removed the skin from my upper torso and discovered why I’ve had all this trouble breathing: someone must have snuck in while I was asleep and replaced my lungs with two dead lightbulbs. This explains everything.
