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monologue from a pair of girl's eyeglasses:

I've never told anyone this before.

That's not true, actually.

I told my mother once, when she was in the hospital after her radiation. But she wouldn't remember. I told Gunnebo Wickett from the John Deere store—that's not the name of the store, that's what we call it—Gunnebo was a friend of my mother's, um but their idea of friendship was a little uh, different than others'. Slippery. Is that right, slippery? Peculiar word. Like you can almost hear the oil in it. Gunnebo anyway. Real skinny guy, big purple nose like an autumn gourd with hair coming out, growing down into his moustache. That moustache was always shiny, look like he glued it down with epoxy, suppose he used moustache wax, which is, I mean where would you even find moustache wax, maybe on the internet, but he was kind of old, maybe he had some lying around, and he smelled too, like sometimes like the inside of an old car, like that kind of stale, not sure if it was his breath or his clothes or both, but boy was he skinny. Mom fed him a few times a week when she was well but she was a horrible cook because of the one-hand thing, she lost the other hand when she was a girl, some farm accident she never talked about but secretly I think it had something to do with sex.

But anyway when she'd cook stuff would stick to the pan and set off the smoke alarm so we took the batteries out. She just couldn't the pan off the flame fast enough. Be chopping something and then BEEP BEEP BEEP. Maybe it wasn't the one-arm thing… I'll bet other one-armed people can cook. Maybe she was just inept. But that didn't stop Gunnebo from coming around. Three nights a week, sitting his stinky lanky self at our table and scraping the plate with his knife in his fist and saying Amelia this is delicious and he'd leave the black parts on the edges of the meat like it was that way on purpose. Not me. I'd cut them off and give them to the pigs.

I didn't hate Gunnebo per se. Except when he made her cry. But that was only a few times and I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to. She wouldn't cry in front of him. Not in front of me either. She cried in the shower. I guess because he tears would go down the drain rather than into the skillet or on the counter or her jeans, or whatever. Because then they'd be part of her space, like molecules of sorrow embedded in her daily life but in the shower they get drained into the sewers or wherever, as though they never had anything to do with the her at all. You could tell how sad she was by the length of her showers. Long after the hot water was gone. When she was dying she showered every day, for hours and hours. So much water.

Gunnebo still came three nights a week then, but there were no dinners. We got KFC or Pizza hut. Gunnebo liked the crusts with the cheese inside. I'm not sure why he kept coming when she stopped talking. One night he fell asleep on the couch with his mouth all slack and that's when I told him. Then mom was in the hospital two weeks later and that's when I told her. And now, well. I'm about to tell you. I'm not sure why. I think it's because of your eyes. They remind me of, of leaves, of light coats and cold afternoon breezes and pumpkin patches and apple cider. Your eyes, and the fact that you haven't stopped holding me since I asked you to.

What I'm about to tell you is. I'm allergic to bees. Just kidding. I mean I AM allergic to bees, but that's not what I told Gunnebo or mom. I told them the story of how I feel sometimes when I think of death. Like I'm sitting crosslegged at the bottom of the sea, and looking at starfish and stingrays and all sorts of sea animals floating and resting and swimming, and there is no noise, none at all, and my hair is lifting all around my head like a net, and I'm calm. I'm calm.

(beat)

I'm not afraid of dying, Jimmy.

(beat)

What do you think of me now?