These days I move from room to room looking for a thing tohaunt. The filaments inside my teeth glow in the dark,thirty-two beacons no one will see, except the mirror Ireturn to again and again, hoping for it to swallow me, tofind anything there but my face. Mirror is another word forhunger. Hunger is another word for dead. Anyone would betired of hearing from me, the kind of woman — this repulsiveword — who’ll never have a garden or greenhouse, only afridge crisper full of broccoli and kale and lettuce, allrotting to sludge, bananas on the counter blackening likefrostbitten skin. I used to quarter an apple with suchperfection I could have been autopsying my own heart. Thething is there’s no way out of this house. Memory circleslike flies. Even the dead need to eat. Even the dead dream. Ileft a note in the memory: You deserve so much more thandesire.