My favorite coffee mug is broken. Even. There's a line on the inside, snaking from top to bottom that I saw afterward. When I poured the coffee into it I thought I'd missed, a pool of pale brown seeping out from under. The blue gazelle bled brown drops and no matter how many times I wiped, the blue bloomed brown. The mushrooms, the perfect green curlicues, all stained. I am tempted toward sad, the tears for the mug, my favorite, for blue and green bled brown. No matter. A slice of glass in the dishwasher, too, jagged and a chunk of ceramic hacked off the sink, a black scuff on the edge of the counter. Chairs were thrown while I slept by the ocean.
We have a rat in the shed and the rat man is here with bait. It's like a granola bar, he says. His bald head gleams. He has three squares of plastic clover glued onto black boxes. They go off to die.