I need more cream, she says. I need more cream here. Put it here. I put it where she tells me. I need it, like, inside the thing, with your finger. I think it's good enough, I say, let's go. She takes a picture of the thing, then we leave.

The night is how the night normally is, moon hung, machine-gunned stars. What does the night mean? I wonder, as if it were art. Electric lights built by humans shine because of the no sunshine. We take a walk and wonder under it all. Where are we headed? I ask. I'm hungry, she says.

Bumblebees block the happy door so we try the sad.

Inside, jars of black cream on shelves adorn the walls. The ceiling is green. It is something I notice. The ceiling is someone's front lawn.

Seven sad, she says. The man takes seven jars from the shelf behind him, bags them. Seven sad is seven even, he says, a dollar a jar.

I'm hungry, she says. We're back outside under the midnight. I've got a Twix, I say, remembering. She eats it on the way back.

We're back, I say declaratively as I step through the doorway, as if other people or maybe a dog lived there. The creamed thing is in the corner. She goes to it, takes out a jar of sad and pours it in. Here, she says. I take the camera from her. I take a picture of the thing. A few more.

It's good, yeah? she says. I say, yeah.

Darby Larson edits the new online journal, Abjective. He's got stories in or forthcoming from New York Tyrant, Eyeshot, No Colony, Pequin, SmokeLong and others.

To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200901art.htm

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Jef Harris.

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