Gregory Greenleaf

I am looking at a tall, white mound on the dinner plate that the waiter has just placed in front of me. "Is there anything else I can get you?" he asks. "How about what I ordered?" I think. Instead, I thank the waiter and he departs.

I am sitting at my kitchen table and strewn before me are the empty coffins of separated pistachio shells mixed with broken fingernails that used to reside at the tips of my fingers. I look despondently at the measuring cup only a quarter full of pistachios and the heaping bowl of pistachios next to it whose shells have yet to be removed.

The first period comes to an end and the hockey players for both teams skate off the ice. The Zamboni sluggishly comes out of its den and I close my eyes, nod off, and dream I am having a sleepover with college mascots.

No, I did not know. Instead of knee-deep into the refrigerator, Allison is head-deep. I am behind her, sitting at the kitchen counter and checking the weather on my phone. It's supposed to be 73 today and sunny. Just right!

These words are not meant for the racoon who raids my bird feeder every evening and devours sunflower seeds. The feeder is attached to my porch railing in a spot where, from my indoor perch, I can watch the birds eat the seeds meant for them and also watch the squirrels eat the seeds not meant for them.

"You're doing it wrong," Bobby says. "I am? There is a right way?" I ask, mystified that I'm actually having this conversation. "Yes," Bobby replies.