He says nothing, vehemently. I falter away and we sit, mutually staring into the fouled water. ...


With time to kill, I ponder dismally the possible derivation of the zombie myth from people like my boyfriend. I picture Ralph blackened, semi-fingered, with bright bone peeking through his flesh. The odd small worm clings, festively wiggling. In my image, Ralph's really upset about decaying, and I feel for him sorrowfully. I want to tell him I would still love him, if he were decomposed. Of course in practice there is no predicting what I'd feel, and besides which, it's a wild associative leap.


I ponder dismally how I've alienated people, all my life, with my bizarre associative leaps.

Autor: Sandra Newman