This cold is making me trippy. On the escalator at the train station I lean my head back, perhaps the flourescents will burn me into reality. I feel a door in the back of my head open, and playing cards are flying out, now dominoes, now bumble bees and egg salad sandwiches. At work I put a thumb tack through my index finger. I should be in bed.

I finally wobble to the grocery store, where I can barely understand my check-out lady. I am sure she is speaking English, but it is barking and heavily accented and I am having a hard time mating her words to our transaction. For the first time I notice that each check out lane has a lit numbered sign, lane one has the picture of a peach on it; lane two has strawberries; lane three is a lemon and a lime. I am in the tomato lane.

Now I have slept through the day, rolling and dreaming, waking only to deep evening. The curtains are still open, and the light from my neighbors' windows makes orange squares across the yards. From the window by my bed is the white round moon. Hello, do you remember I was in love with you?