You radiate stony solidity.
The sun gleams brightly on your skin, and you walk through the grocery store as a god stalking his temple. You are remote: you can be touched, but nothing touches you. You can be grasped but never held. And when you examine that can of peas, the other shoppers steal guilty, surreptitious glances at the brand.
At the checkout stand, you pay less. The pretty girl behind the register smiles up at you. She is not shy, but you make her blush. And you do not notice until you pull into your driveway and the door rises before you on a garage full of barely-used tools. Another small regret, like a faded butterfly under some leaves.
Your refrigerator is neat and well-stocked. You can find what you want and it is always fresh. Nothing expires before you’ve had your fill of it. There are no half-eaten yogurts, no shrivelled grapes, no artichokes forgotten at the back of the crisper. Your bread never goes stale.
And when you shut off the television and go to bed, your eyes close and you drift off in minutes.
