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The Exception

At the screen door he seems nice enough. His face is oddly familiar. I tell him I never do this, this is the exception. He wants to make a phone call but takes over the kitchen instead, starts cooking mushroom soup in an aluminum pan. I explain about aluminum salts. The line is busy, and he lights the fire. I tend it like a small toothache and begin to talk and my tongue starts peeling off in little flames and falling into the fire. 'Don't do that,' he says. The phone rings. It's for him. She is calling from a distant city where she has gone to buy material for the couch. Does he want flowers? I decide to wait out in the garden. I lie on a bench and look up at the map of the stars. It's cold. Through the lighted window I can see him still talking. He paces the room. There's a large worm in his hands and he holds it out from his body: it's writhing and appears to be inconsolable.