I have some old veggie burgers I was planning on throwing away so I squeeze open the door just enough to throw them at the dog, who sets upon devouring them and looks up at me as if I’m his new best friend. I groan and slam the screen door shut. From the corner of my eye I see that Elba has gotten out of bed and is standing in the doorway, naked, peering at me through eyes of half-sleep.

I grab a pair of tongs from the kitchen and start nudging the book away from my doorway and when another square photo slips out I slam my fist into the wall and a ribbon of pain shoots through my arm. I pick up the picture. It’s Elba again, this time seated before an apparently hovering checkerboard tablecloth, a kerosene candle illuminating a spray of fake roses. A man has his arm around her shoulder and is either going in for a kiss or is pulling away from one. I look into his eyes and let out a cry. A flush of heat takes root in my blood and multiplies—grain in a silo—shooting to my heart in a line and I heave from my diaphragm as if to root out contamination. I rip the photo in half, then in half again, and again, until all that’s left of it is a snowfall of pieces burning angry holes into the dingy carpet of the hallway. I turn around and see Elba, naked, watching, from the bedroom doorway. She walks towards me. I shut the door and reach for her. I pull her into a hug, squeezing all of the life and light in me into her narrow shoulders, sending it towards her heart. She pulls away and opens her mouth to speak, to ask, but I kiss her instead, full-mouthed. I tell her I love her. She asks if it’s over. I tell her, Yes. I will no longer be tormented. I slide my fingers between her legs, where I can still feel my semen from last night. From the balcony, I hear wet noises as the dog shreds and swallows the fake flesh.

Mushrooms are burgeoning as a result of the recent rain and so that night I walk into the woods behind my apartment and collect them with my bare hands. Voltaire once wrote that a dish of these mushrooms changed the destiny of Europe but I’m not thinking of empires and successions. Tomorrow is payday. I go back upstairs.