“This fucking thing will be the death of me.”

It was January 10th, 2022, and I was finally taking the goddamn toaster out of the box to set it up. The toaster was a Christmas gift from my wife. She moved out a few days after that. I received the separation agreement from her attorney last week.

“You don’t just need to step outside of your comfort zone!” shouted Vince Tickleman, “You need to leap out of it!”

It started on my hands, but I gave it no mind since I’d always had sensitivities. Food, dander, dust—people. They gave me the hives. Especially women. You could ignore men. Even act like they didn’t exist. Females were a different species, though. If you didn’t breathe, think, feel women, you had a condition.

“So,” he says, moping his nostril rims with a tissue, “what’s your interest in the frog?”

Mrs. Watkins checks her hat in the mirror. A mauve cap with glued-on feathers in a darker shade, and a veil that doesn’t clear the tip of her nose—perfect. It says grief, but not too much. She checks her invitation from HelloAgain. It’s her first outing since Jim’s death six weeks ago.