Lox

Lox

It feels wrong. We were together when you bought the salmon, and you still hadn’t opened it by the time I left.

I told the interviewer, “I think I’m going to do something with lox tonight,” when she asked what I was having for dinner. I blanked. I wasn’t, I wasn’t doing something with lox, but it was the first thing I could think of in the refrigerator.

“I think I’m going to do something with lox tonight,” I said in my thick grey designer cardigan that you got me, and in the black jeans I had just raided from my own drag closet. I didn’t get that job, probably because I was a minute late. I got held up across town at an interview for a much worse job. I should have just gotten up and left when I realized I might be late. I have a bad habit of staying too long.

I could have been a bouncer. I think I might have liked that, but probably not. What I wanted to be was an astronaut, but one from far in the future. What I wanted to be was lazy, and your lover, and your shelter.

The fish was so queer, in its glossy blue vacuum seal. There was something else, too, but I remember the salmon; it was almost as though you had decided to become another person.

Do you remember the lox? I wonder if you ever did anything with it. I wonder if you got some capers and bagels, and pickled some red onion for a ladies’ brunch with friends. I wonder if you ate a big fistful of it right from the bag while you watched Finnish folk dancing videos on your laptop in bed. I wonder if the lox maybe didn’t mean anything to you at all, if you never ate it, if you threw it away or gave it to the cat.

Point is, you had never bought lox before. I guess I should have known.

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