This September afternoon, though, she was bored in the house, eager to put off the task of making dinner—tacos yet again, Roy’s favorite, which meant dicing tomatoes, chopping onions, grating cheese, frying mediocre ground beef from the local Acme that stank at first with an aroma only the dog could appreciate.
Imagine the gall not to need light at all,
as if you, blindcat, were not breaking
the surface of a subterranean lake,
but floating in outer space.