I cannot speak a word. I’d followed Thom’s advice. Sent the email, expecting nothing. Heard nothing back, all the intervening weeks. Seventeen thousand dollars, she tells me. You got your money, whatever you sent worked. The bitch backed down. On lifting the shoebox lid, my bath bombs explode the air with scent. When I tip them in, the whole box’s worth, the chalky spheres bob in the water, harmless and bland. Fizzing slightly. Then they metamorphose. Pastel and neon and iridescent foam roars out their sides. They have names, somewhere. Intergalactic. Melusine. Sex Bomb. Twilight.
...more
