When we made love you had the dense body of a Doberman and the square head of a Rottweiler. With my eyes closed I saw: a light green plate with seared scallops and a perfect fillet of salmon on a cedar plank. Now I am safe in the deep V of a weekday wanting to tell you how the world is full of street signs and strollers and pregnant women in spandex. The bed and desk both want me. The windows, the view, the idea of Paris. With my minutes, I chip away at the idiom, an unmarked pebble in a fast current. Later, on my way to the store, a boy with a basketball yells, You scared? to someone else, and the things on the list to buy come home with me. And the baby. And your body.
From Museum of Accidents by Rachel Zucker. Copyright © 2010 by Rachel Zucker. Used by permission of Wave Books.