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		Sharon proposes a date— February 21^st— I’m not sure how to prepare for it, as we arise early to go the market on Givat Tsarfatit. Outside, we recycle our empty plastics. The white vans, the catcalls follow— I must prepare myself— yet a sharp espresso and sunroofs have sated me for a stretch of life. This walk to the one back are sedative. The guard searches us with only a boker tov. Somewhere we are mobilizing against mass destruction. I investigate the firmness of melons though I choose the first ones I touch. Bananas with a few brown spots, the tart oranges. This yogurt keeps until tomorrow, I tell her. And on sale, prickly pears, which I’ve never handled. Not all the spines were removed, and she inspects my hand as if it will turn against me. We find splinters from my bed frame and yet I feel little— it must be the frozen food— a blue undertow flows beneath my palm. Will it come while I am looking for bargains? Am I ready? Am I proud? Eat something, my roommate pays again, instead of delusion eating you. At home, I shower instead. Water so hot my skin blisters and begs, my skeleton clattering like picked bones on a plate.
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