She discovers a finish of dust on the felt drawer-bottoms, despite the long time it's been since she opened it or wore lipstick.
Sometimes she's asked "What are you thinking of?" and she's so startled she says "Nothing," rather than describe a mug with a bite-shaped chip in its rim, or years ago killing a cat with carbon monoxide for love of a medical student.
It thrashed as far from the tailpipe as the sack would stretch -- ball of fur in a taut lung that wouldn't work.
The cat grew slack and then grew stiff.
In biology class she'd used corpses cold from formaldehyde, but when they cut the cat it was warm and the heat ran into her wrists.
There used to be two of these earrings.
Erotic memories, how they all survive, though most of them need a sentimental past for a context, or have none, chunks of space debris turning in an icy light. "Nothing in particular," she corrects herself out loud, stunned by the speed of life -- she who used to curse boredom "Daddy drive faster," she'd urge because he wouldn't.
Time to brush my hair, she tells herself, then time to work.
Her hair pouts in clumps.
It's always been thin, slow to unsnarl.
Easy does it.
She begins to sing, softly at first.
