Last night, I drank all the milk.

There had been a gallon in the refrigerator at the start of the evening, but last night was too thrilling. I had washed my face in it. I had dipped my feet in it. I had let my questions roll over a bowl of it like white waves on a Japanese ocean. And in the end, I had filled my favorite spike-heeled pump with cold, white milk and drunk it down so deeply that I went to bed giddy with a hot sake belly burn.

And here I am. The morning after. My shoe is ruined, and I am staring into the empty metal box that is my fridge.

Or maybe I haven’t had milk for days. I can remember that too.

Regardless.

What it means is that today I must clip my toenails, put on my jacket, and walk out into the daylight glare in my lovely, porcelain, milk-soaked skin.

Today, I have no choice. Today, I must visit The Mini-Mart.