Menstruation is clean again. The theater critic sits in the tub with her clothes on. She listens to light rock over the radio about bending an aluminum fork with one's teeth. Love, in many ways, has taken over hunger. She can order a cucumber sandwich at St. Yves and leave the bread on the plate. In fractions, the neighbor's lawnmower vibrates the window the way a can opener cuts through tin. She holds the shampoo at arm's length: the instructions have nothing to do with wine in her breath. Next, there will be smoke to preclude the fire. Burning an illegal amount of grass is the next death. She composes several numbers in her mind and a review of what she'll tell the police. She remembers all the openings and how she sometimes leaves stains on her seat. Her hands shrivel — uninspired — underwater. When she gets out, she has to step on the bathmat. Only now she feels safe in her body.