He wanders from the TV into his kitchen for a glass of water. A commercial is on, someone saying something about the percentage of the human body which is water. . . . Strange (drinking the water) . . . this water was NOT ME and suddenly it's ME. Iron too . . . the iron in my blood, ME, a piece of iron in the ground: NOT ME. Where will the iron in my blood be three hundred years from now?

He wonders what he should get her. He changes the channel to PBS. Valentine's Day . . . just another ploy to make people spend money, like Christmas. What should I get her? . . . Something personal. Now there's an educational show on . . . someone saying that 90% of household dust is dead skin. He wipes some dust off the TV screen with his finger, looks at the gray. . . . Dust that was ME suddenly NOT ME . . . something personal.

He takes a shoebox into the shower, squats down, pressing. His innards let loose, semi-explosively. He tries to make it all land cleanly, but some overflow makes it a little messy. He takes toilet paper and wipes the edges, then the inside of the tub . . . make it nice and clean. He puts the lid on the shoebox, goes to get some tape, tapes the lid on. Gift-wrap comes next: he wraps the paper around it, hoping it will block the smell, taping it very neatly with neat folds and creases. Something personal. He hopes the smell won't give away what the present is.

The next day, his girlfriend (who does notice the smell) opens the box in fear and curiosity, staring at the sausage-shaped, dark loaf of matter that sits gazing back at her, draped in thick fragrance and terrible.