From "Sun Tunnel"

There was fury and rage and metallic tension in the air and the brush was scintillating with molten ornaments of need.

I work in the Arts & Crafts Section and I can’t remember the name of my first dog. I.e, Is my life a failure?

Why do people take the spot next to the window on the bus when they only have two stops? Since when has it become commonplace to careen about a shop with a hot beverage in the vicinity of printed matter? Would I be different if I drank coffee instead of tea? What happened to the jewelry box I hand painted for my mother when I was in summer camp? How often do they vacuum this carpet? How long could I go without food before I felt sick? Isn’t it amazing that only a painted yellow line keeps strangers from hurtling into one another with their cars? How many people has my sister had sex with? How could the postmaster have allowed 100 ducklings to die in a box before they could be delivered- wasn’t there some indication that they were ever so much more than fragile? Will I ever like to exercise? The question was never, why did my mother do it, but rather, why did she wait so long?
What is the appeal of monogrammed tote bags? Shouldn’t people declare sand in their sneakers on a custom form? How did my father make it through the day on just one half of a grapefruit?
If books cost less, would more people get published? If I wrote a book, would I be considered ungracious if I left out a thank-you section? Why do so many American women have highlights? How did the lobster feel when my mother placed him on the floor of our black and white kitchen in order to scare, or to impress us? Will I have this job for the rest of my life, or will I die beforehand?
Why do the ridges of my socks stay imprinted on my skin so much longer than other people’s? Why in the world would I ever want to order a blueberry latté? What happened to my childhood furniture after my father moved in with the woman in the leggings? How come there are never any people of color in the Fiction section of this bookshop, is it because I live in Connecticut? Why does adding an additional ‘p’ and ‘e’ to the end of “shop” automatically cause one to associate the venue with Christmas? Does anyone know the difference between a sheriff and a cop?
Do people actually forget that they have half a sandwich in the staff refrigerator, or do they intend, one day, to suddenly remember –hooray!- I have half a sandwich in the staff refrigerator?
Am I too old to wear a bib? Is it human to not allow us to sit down? How many people out there actually create things with pipe cleaners any more and where in the world would you buy some if you wanted to?
Do only men build model trains? Why do guests never use the guest soap you leave on the top of the carefully folded towels on their bed?
Why can’t I remember the name of my first dog?
Isn’t there another location for a nametag than on top of my left breast?

In the cafeteria

Beef bourguignon, tofutti, or Cuban sandwiches- with or without the bread?
It’s so hard to choose, I said, turning to my companion.
Isn’t it?
I really feel like a Cuban sandwich, but it’s not the same without the bread.
Tofutti, I say, pointing. I’ve decided to be good.
The woman behind the counter dips her serving spoon into one of the empty trays. They’ve heated each tray on top of a bed of dirty water. I know this because I used to work in a restaurant myself and no one ever dumps that water out at night after the hot selections have been removed.
I can’t resist- says my companion. Cuban sandwiches- but without the bread.
She winks. Baby steps, she says.
I grab us silverware and take too many napkins. I feel guilty about the amount of napkin I’ve taken, so I push them to the side of the table we choose in hopes that someone else will use them. I imagine, however, that they’ll just get thrown out. Why don’t I just stand up and put them back?
Hmmmmmm, says my friend, sniffing her food. This just smells delicious.
She is very convincing. I look at her plate. There is a speck of something small and dry stuck near the middle of it.
Mine’s too hot to eat just yet, she says, folding her arms.
I pick up my fork. I forgot what I have supposedly ordered. Oh yes, I remember. I tell my companion that I wish I had chopsticks.
Oh- she says. You should drop that into the suggestion box.
I push my fork into what I imagine to be the center of a thick slab of tofu. I decide that it is resting on a bed of ginger scallion sauce and so I push the piece on my fork around and around to soak up the sauce.
Is it good? She asks, after I’ve taken my first bite.
It could be spicier. They always err on the side of caution, here.
She nods. She raises the fork to her mouth. I watch as she closes her lips around the prongs. She takes time to swallow. She puts her fork back down. Shouldn’t you be eating that with your hands? I ask.
She looks down at her plate. Well, it’s not really a sandwich without the bread, she says, pointing to what I assume she intends for me to think is lettuce.
Plus, this way it lasts longer. You want to try?
I grimace.
No, but thanks. I stare down at my plate trying to imagine how much there might be there- how large or small a portion. Do you want to try mine?
I am disheartened when she says, yes, as sharing isn’t part of my repertoire, yet.

From "Homemade"

It had been early enough in the morning that Teresa’s mother could have ran out into the street without making a spectacle of herself, but the front door only opened once that day. Her father left behind a host of foreign smells and objects in his wake that Teresa spent weeks running her hands over, under, on. In the garage, in the far corner of the bedroom. A rotary mower, two pairs of cedar shoe horns, a box of Amaretto flavored cigars, covered in dust.

From "Homemade"

When they were little, Sarah used to tease Teresa about what the bigger boys and girls did. She would hold her down on the carpet and tickle her on the belly, whispering that one day, a boy would stick a penis in her mouth. It will sound like this! She would say, blowing air into her ear.
Teresa didn’t know about a boyfriend, but it would be nice to have an obligation to someone other than herself. Not a person, necessarily, but a small thing that she could prepare a dish of food for. The type of obligation that would force her to snap out of her reveries, and think, I have to do this now. A cat, or a rabbit- she wasn’t fond of dogs and their easy, indiscriminate displays of affection. Teresa didn’t put much stock into superficial relationships. If you liked her, you liked her. If you didn’t? It was like those zucchini loaves. You just wouldn’t get one next year.

From "Homemade"

Sarah worked out the numbers and closed the business the next day. Adolescent, adult, she’d been that way with everything. One week, Sarah ate nothing but vanilla flavored frozen yogurt before deciding that she didn’t like anything that oozed out of a machine. And last year for Christmas, she’d sent Teresa a carton full of ducklings. She must have thought she was only ordering one, because the card that came with it said “I hope you like him!”. There were 100 ducklings in that flat box, 25 per grid. Teresa had to spend an hour and a half on the telephone before she could find someone to take them back.

My dream on the 8th.

In these dreams, my grandmother is alive again, and no one in my family asks why. It is as if everything will be ruined if we do.