I Was Just Frosted

Thanks, Ray, this is just what the doctor ordered. No, you never see me have one with olives—your father likes olives but I can’t stand them. No, cocktail onions are just picked small. Turn that down, Dan. Avocados, toothpicks. Coleus, root sprawl. The diffident glints of a late-day sun, rays splintered by leaves: they shake and, in their shaking, streak the light. Transparent murk of glasses at the glass. Would you move just one inch over? There. The light was in my eye.