At work, I think about using a knife. Chopping chives all day will do that to you. Glide don’t crush. I bet I could do it quick and clean. Chef picks a slice out of the pile and throws it on the ground and probably says something rude and vaguely sexist. He sends me out front to buss. I sit in the bathroom and hold my breath. I don’t think any of the knives at home are sharp.

At one o’clock in the morning, Friends is on. I think about Chandler, which is to say I think about pills. Pills to send me into a little sleep. Except that it’s all about proper measurements. Get it wrong and it’s not so much sleep as choking on your own vomit; writhing like a beached whale, bloated and bloodshot. It’s not like there’s a recipe anywhere. If Friends had been made today, Chandler would be bisexual.

In the mirror, I change my hair three times. I can barely leave the house these days without imagining some stranger taking notice and grabbing my hand just to stroke it. Or groping me in a bathroom stall – that’s sexier. Otherwise what’s the point? There’s this dishwasher at the restaurant. He’s a string bean of a Croatian boy with a sweaty little goatee visiting on a work visa for the summer. He says my name like Zhane. Ghane, where do whisks go? Zhane, tell chef to make pasta for meal, yeah? Zhane, I sharpen knife for you. And I say, Yes, Josip. Anything you say, Josip. Anyway, it’s something to think about while I chop chives.

On Mia’s birthday I think about falling. Words falling out of your mouth. Falling off her lips. Falling out of touch. Falling off a building.

For dinner, I swallow cold cuts and dry mozzarella and watermelon cubes. I do it one gulp so they combine on my tongue to taste like nothing with a sprinkle of salt. I think about those models who would starve themselves all week until Saturday. On Saturday they would fill themselves up and then some. They would fill themselves up so much their stomachs would explode. I wonder how much I’d have to eat for my stomach to explode? In the winter, I do orange slices instead of watermelon because I’m a Goddamn culinary connoisseur.

In the shower, I watch a spider, one of those almost see-through ones. I watch it climb the tile and slip and climb and slip and climb and slip down the drain.

At work, I stand by one of those great big mixers where Chef makes the dough for bagels and muffins and sourdough. I think about my grandfather’s bread- maker; the sound of it pushing and pulling, the smell of metal and yeast. When my grandfather went into hospice, I told him I would make him bread, a baguette – he used to like a crusty bread and french onion soup. He was always drooling bits of dry chicken, though, and tiny cubes of jell-o, and, you know, baguettes are tough to chew, especially if there’s no soup to go with it. And I got busy. I was just starting school then. I wasn’t doing a lot of baking. I think about choking on my own spit.

At one o’clock in the morning, Friends is on. The one with the leg wax. The one after the copy-girl. What is that one called? I think about Ross and Rachel. I think about arms and faces and hearts.. I think about how pathetic Ross looks at Rachel’s feet. I try to cry, but I don’t.

In bed, I avoid the thinking thing all together. Sometimes I feel like I’m already in a coma, like maybe my phone really is corroding something. I think about slush on the sidewalk a few days after a snow, brown and crusty and the shape of someone’s boot.

At six o’clock in the morning, I chew my mealy apple on the train. I almost think I would rather go hungry than feel it sloshing around in my body. I actually think about how long it would take to starve to death.

At work, I think about sticking my head in an oven. Choking on the scent of fresh bread isn’t a bad way to go. Or do they not make ovens like that anymore? I ask Josip if he goes to school in Croatia. He tells me he is studying to be an engineer. I ask him if his university friends come to the US for the summer. He shakes his head. I ask him if his girlfriend misses him. He laughs and lifts his eyebrows in my direction and I hear something in me creak.

On my day off, I think about calling Mia. What’s up? How’s country-life working for you? Why did you stop calling? Instead I watch Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, scrub the bathroom tile and think about bleach.

At night, my neighbor throws a party, a big rager. He’s got some job in tech I can’t remember and is high most of the time. He’s nice enough, he waves at me when his friends aren’t around. I open the window and watch lean bitcoin-bros and skinny, blond, probably actresses or dancers or pilates instructors, buzz his apartment and giggle, and I laugh with them like I know what they mean.

At work, I’m back to a knife. Glide don’t crush. Onions always make me cry, even chives. I think about the smell. How long would it take for the smell to be bad enough that someone knocks on my door? People would probably think it’s a phase, it’s rude to confront it, mind your own business. I ask Josip if he likes to cook, why he wanted to work here, why he wanted to come to this country, to this city, if he likes parties. I ask Josip if he has a boyfriend back in Croatia, he laughs a little less. You ask much questions. I think about when my rent is next due.

In bed, my eyes ache. I think about the time I pushed Hannah Lopez to the ground in fourth grade because she wasn’t playing tetherball right. I think about the time I broke my grandfather’s urn when my father was moving and I made too short a stop driving the van and he told me he figured something would get broken on the drive. I think about the time I skipped class to smoke crouched in the parking lot of a Burger King with Sydney Lewis and Emma Anderson because I wanted to be someone with whom they wanted to be friends. I think about crying in the Burger King bathroom like a toddler. I think about the moment two months ago when I asked a classmate to please get the fuck out of my way while carrying a hot tray. Maybe that’s why I was never invited out for drinks. I think about Josip touching me, just on the arm. I think about if Josip thinks about me when he’s not at work. I think about how pathetic it is to think about if Josip is thinking about me. I think about a deep, long sleep and call it dreaming.

On the toilet, I think about how delicious it feels to be empty.

At one o’clock in the morning, Friends is on. I think about Monica. I think about Monica’s delicate wrists, her biceps. Monica would have calluses and burns on her hands. I think about burning it all down. I think about laying on a hot stove cooking my cheeks medium-rare. I think about pan-seared steak with a light char. And a rosemary and red wine sauce, or maybe sage. Oh, on a bed of cold watercress and baby portabella mushrooms. I slip my hand down my belly, but don’t do anything with it.

At work I can’t stop staring at Josip’s goatee. This happens sometimes. I think about how he must spend an hour everyday shaving his face into a perfect, prickly square. All so he can get just the right amount of crumbs stuck in it. I think about kissing it. What a nightmare.

For dinner, the thought of cold cuts in my throat makes me want to vomit. I sip disgusting peach wine and tell myself it’s everyone else who’s missing out.

In the shower, there is a spider. Which is fucking nuts since I just cleaned the bathroom. One of those little clear-white ones with big, round eyes. I watch as it climbs up the tile and slips and climbs and slips and climbs and slips. So, I nudge it onto my finger and tingle at its touch and flick it onto the fire escape and allow myself a drag on the scent of someone else’s cigarette. I think about the spider probably falling to its little spider death. Does it have bones to break? Or does it just bounce right up despite the sting?

At work, I think about how Mia only ever wanted to eat chicken tenders or yogurt – she wasn’t an eater. I think about the time I tried to make her Salmon with Sorrel Sauce. We’d spent the week on cream sauces at school. The salmon was so tender it was more a flavor than something to be chewed. She refused to eat it, though, couldn’t stand the thought of eating fish with cream. So, I ripped open a box of Kraft and we slurped elbows and nothing had ever tasted better. I try not to be resentful about that.

At one o’clock in the morning, Friends is on. It’s the episode where they go to Barbados. I’ve seen it twice this week. I think I hate this show and I don’t think I could possibly watch anything else.

At work, Chef asks me what the fuck I’m doing here if I’m just going to chop chives. I tell him that he told me to chop chives. Does he want me to do something other than chop chives? He asks me if I need a fucking invitation to work in a fucking kitchen. He asks me if I want him to hold my hand. I tell him that might be nice. He sends me out to buss. I sit in the bathroom and hold my breath.

At home, I close all my windows and melt into the hot air. This is as close as I get.