viz.

viz.

I call the repairman. In fact, I end up calling two, both named Mike. The tip of the first Mike’s nose is red and pitted, as if it’s been gnawed by a small but vicious animal. Skin, he explains, is just a kind of mask. The second Mike leaves with a signed check for three hundred dollars and a promise to return with the right part. Whatever is supposed to happen now isn’t what will happen. Death squads of angels may prowl bathroom stalls. Species may go missing. Stunned survivors may come tumbling out. Nothing ever actually gets fixed. Faces float past me with all the energetic aimlessness of dandelion fluff.