In the quivering candlelight Malcolm looked across the table at Ana, whose black curls were piled in a mass on top of her head. Malcolm had always wondered what she keeps hidden in there. Sometimes she would reveal a spare pencil or a collection of clips shaped like butterflies, decorations that became lost, as Malcolm did, in her up-do’s jungled beauty. Tonight the tower swayed with her every gesture, almost spilling out onto the tablecloth as she bent her neck closer to read the day’s specials. The air was warm with the smell of fresh bread and garlic, and Malcolm thought Ana, and her tower, looked more beautiful than ever.

“What looks good?” Malcolm asked, puffing out his chest and leaning back in his chair. He balanced on the chair’s back two legs, a habit from childhood he had never outgrown. His shoulders swayed gently, and his hum evolved into a jovial whistle following the skip of Muzak’s tarantella.

“Maybe the manicotti.” Ana was shielding her face with the menu. Malcolm could only see the arcs of her eyebrows.

“Your sister coming next weekend?” Malcolm asked. He fiddled with the salt-shaker, entertaining the idea of slinging a quick dash over his left shoulder. Or was it the right? Either way, it wasn’t worth the risk. There would be a scene like last week at Juanita’s when he had salted his chips only to lick each one dry before re-salting them, a guilty pleasure he usually only allowed himself at family potlucks and super bowl parties. Before she hadn’t minded; in the past he had even persuaded her to join him. But last week she had stormed from the meal mid-course, and later, she had used the words “disgusted” and “embarrassment” to describe the evening to her sister on the phone.

“Yes. She is,” Ana hissed. The curly black tower was steadied only by her dancer’s perfect posture.

The server arrived, delivering a small loaf of bread. Finally Malcolm could match the welcoming smell with its source. The night was busy for the restaurant, and the server’s cheeks showed growing spots of pink. Ana and Malcolm both chose salad over soup, and the server sprinted off back to the kitchen.

“Is that a problem? My sister?” Ana steepled her hands and leaned into the candlelight. Her eyebrows twitched. Malcolm thought she looked magnificent, her body straight, as if her spine were held upright by a string that dangled from the ceiling. But she was frowning, and her eyes were cinched. He could tell she meant to pick a fight.

“No, oh no. I didn’t mean that at all.” Malcolm continued to fiddle with the salt shaker. He was sure Clarissa’s visit would only perpetuate Ana’s sour mood. He didn’t have a problem with the older sister, a tragic, pixie-like thing from the city with a remarkably deep voice for a woman weighing less than one hundred pounds. But Clarissa believed her sister needed someone more artsy and conflicted than Malcolm, whom she saw as only a bumbling twenty-something journalist with big white tennis shoes and a wardrobe of zip-up sweatshirts.

“Sure.” Ana tore a corner off the loaf. “You know, you always do this.” She peered down at him through her small, beady eyes.

“Do what?” Malcolm asked. Ana’s hair seemed to move on its own, as if something were burrowing. She twitched and scratched at the nape of her neck.

“This. Treat me like this. All the time. I can’t stand it.”

Before Malcolm could respond the server returned, out of breath and balancing the salads. Extra cheese for him. Extra oil and vinegar for her. As the server grated the cheese, Malcolm continued his humming.

Anna plunged into the frilly greens. Malcolm watched her spear bits of carrot as if she were hunting prey, her eyes squinting into slits with each chomping grind. She had always been an emotional eater. Once, she had baked and devoured an entire batch of raspberry-pineapple muffins in one sitting after a failed audition. Her bingeing marked, like a barometer reading, the potential for a storm. Malcolm braced himself for a tantrum. He picked up his fork, pricked at a pepper, and waited. He watched her pan the room with her furrowed gaze, her eyes crawling over a party of cuff-linked businessmen at a booth across from them.

---

    “Ana, do you love me?” Malcolm asked, breaking the silence.

“Things just aren’t what they used to be,” Ana interrupted. Her mouth was crammed with lettuce. She hadn’t heard him at all.

Ana and Malcolm had met in a pharmacy waiting room. She had sat down next to him, but he hadn’t noticed until she had plucked one of the audio buds from his ear to ask how long he had been waiting. Looking up from his magazine, he had realized he had been “waiting” for three and a half hours. Malcolm always got his best work done in waiting rooms and was a connoisseur of sorts, who traveled from hospital to DMV to Walgreen’s, in order to complete his leads before their deadlines. He hadn’t been too polite to ask what she was there waiting for—a refill on some antibiotic—but he had been too self-conscious to tell her that he wasn’t actually waiting at all, that this was his favored workspace. Instead he had made up something involving a future trip to South America and Malaria tablets. He had always been a terrible liar.

That day in the pharmacy, Ana had told Malcolm she was a dancer. That weekend, Malcolm had gone to watch her pull and bend her body into circular shapes at a theater uptown. She had become fluid and circular, her body extended into nameless forms, as if she were a liquid melting back into her natural state. Malcolm had brought her tulips, and the dinners and dates and nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms had naturally progressed until they had come to live together in a small flat on the east side. It wasn’t until then that he had recognized a new distance growing between them, provoked by the silliest of things—spilled coffee grounds on the kitchen floor, or a small change in an evening’s plans. She had become irritable, and he always pretended not to notice.

“What do you mean?” Malcolm picked at the seeds of the pepper, rearranging them on his plate. He noticed she had quite a few more olives than he, especially black olives. She knew they were his favorite but did not offer any.

“The spark. It’s gone. This isn’t working,” Ana said quickly, scratching her head again. She sighed. A strand of grated carrot clung to her upper lip, but Malcolm didn’t care. He couldn’t hear her. He could only stare at the olives. Those plump, inky morsels.

“You!” Ana’s fork and knife bounced from her grip and jangled onto the table. “You aren’t even listening!” Her small eyes were fierce, and her whole body rattled with anger. She took a pull from her water glass, and Malcolm noticed one olive, in particular—small, black and beady— was twitching right in front of him, scuttling across the iceberg and croutons, two long antennae sprouting from its little bristled head.

“You don’t even have an excuse!” Ana hissed louder and slammed down the glass. Ice cubes jingled and escaped onto the tablecloth.

“No! Ana, baby! That’s not it at all!” Malcolm jerked his gaze from her salad to stare straight into her eyes. “You just have to trust me.” She had always been suspicious, but he wondered if it was too late to tell—

But then suddenly, it was too late. Ana stuffed its twitching body, concealed in a thicket of fringed cucumber and shredded carrot, straight into her mouth. Malcolm was amazed her jaw didn’t detach as she crammed the mass between her smacking lips.

“What is it? Do you have something to say to me? Do you, Malcolm?” He had looked away in disgust, but now Ana demanded his eyes, her voice growing louder with each syllable. He turned back to look at her and saw the bulb of her Adam’s apple rise and then fall. He couldn’t help but feel a little relieved.

“What? Sorry?” Malcolm sputtered, “No, of course not! I just meant to say that, that there is no one. But you.” He reached across the table for Ana’s hand, which he squeezed, only to break her gaze again, suspicious of the bulbous folds of hair that towered and twitched above. If there was one, there would be many.

Ana jerked her hand away and scratched again, her beady eyes pure and black. Malcolm shuddered, thinking of lonely, cold nights spent on the living room futon.

---

“Check please.” Instantly, Ana signaled the server as he darted past, almost tripping him as he balanced a full tray. Malcolm didn’t mind if they left. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t salvage much of an appetite.

Ana reached up to rearrange her massive bulk of hair. She shook the up-do loose, and the curls cascaded past her shoulders before she smoothed the hair between her palms and pulled it back into a thick tail. She pulled it back so tightly that Malcolm could see the individual veins in her temples pulsate as she winced and snapped the elastic band. He couldn’t help but notice the strange angles of her arms. Sharp. Straight. And pinched with frustration.

When the server returned with a small folder, Ana reached across for it, knocking Malcolm’s arm out of the way.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m leaving. And paying first.” Ana pushed in her chair and left for the register without looking at him. Malcolm didn’t follow. He stayed at the table, toying with the greens on his plate.

“Will you still be dining with us tonight, sir?” The server returned. His lips were curled in a smirk.

“No, thank you.” Malcolm shrugged and left the table. Circling back around the restaurant to its parking lot where he was sure he wouldn’t find his car, Malcolm waited for the bus. He stood in the mist and watched water trail down in streaks on windshields. The sidewalk was a mess of slush and dirt. Puddles lined with soft, oily rainbows pooled at Malcolm’s feet. He stood there, in a puddle, until he felt the cold seep through the bottoms of his tennis shoes.

Malcolm lingered at the bus stop, annoyed that he didn’t have any material with him for the wait. He made a note to add this bench to his list of potential workspaces. Malcolm pictured Ana at home in bed, the phone cradled with her chin as she crooned to Clarissa, racking up the long distance minutes. In the living room a blanket pulled from the linen closet would rest on the edge of the futon.

 Malcolm kicked at the brown slush and thought that just this once maybe he wouldn’t complete the cycle. Maybe he wouldn’t come back home. Instead, he would explore the town and pull an all-nighter gallivanting from foreign bar to club in search of something different. Yes, Malcolm made up his mind; this was how he would break the dysfunctional routine. But then why didn’t he pull his body from the decrepit blue bench? He just waited there, his head turned in anticipation.

The bus huffed to a halt in front of him, and Malcolm boarded. As the bus wove through the mazes of the city’s one-way streets, Malcolm found something wrong with each new stop: too dark, too shady, no sidewalk. Each time he reached for the yellow cord, he retreated.

The sludge on the steps up to Malcolm’s apartment sucked at the soles of his damp feet. He trudged through the communal hallway, past the mailboxes and the bulletin board advertising a push mower and some unwanted kittens, leaving slick brown tracks that oozed and squelched from his soles’ grip. The apartment door was unlocked.

No blanket rested on the living room’s futon, so without taking off his shoes, Malcolm dragged himself to the linen closet, peering into the dark bedroom. He flicked on the light.

Ana lay curled in a ball on the floor, her face shiny and red from showering. Her curls hung in a curtain across her back. She was molding herself into more shapes, her nightly stretching routine. She unraveled herself like a ball of yarn before tangling herself up again in knots. She was smiling.

Malcolm entered the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and undressed without speaking. He tried to stare only at the carpet but failed. With his mind, he tried to unweave her body, but he couldn’t tell where each of Ana’s limbs ended or began. He shuffled around the room in his boxers and socks until she acknowledged him.

“Are you still mad at me?” Ana cooed, flexing into another enticing position. Her knees were where her head should have been.

---

    “No,” Malcolm said and pulled back the covers. Without brushing his teeth, he climbed in between the cool sheets. He reached for his magazine and flicked on the bedside lamp. Ana sighed and left the room.

Malcolm could only stare at the pages of the article. The words were buoyant in his eyes and floated around on the page as he tried to read them; one less thing he felt like chasing. Malcolm surrendered and instead, stared into the space of air in front of him.

A few moments later Ana came back, wearing her gauzy negligee, the one that reminded Malcolm of the color of Peach Schnapps. Ana slipped beneath the covers beside him. He could feel her scaly legs and the small, sharp prick of her toenails. He thought to ask whether Clarissa was coming even earlier now, but decided against it. He would save it for the morning. Ana sighed again, extinguishing all the air from her taut body.

“I’m just stressed. You know how it is.” Ana pulled him towards her, her lips pursed. Her small eyes were closed, and her breath was hot in Malcolm’s ear. Suddenly, they were both lost under the canopy of her thick, tousled hair.

In their embrace, Malcolm hesitated. Could he kiss that? That same mouth?

But one moment was long enough. Ana sprang from the bed, flinging off the sheet and covers. Her whole body was convulsing and twitching with rage as her curls trailed behind her.

“You know, I can just go sleep somewhere else. Leave you the fuck alone.” Looking at the hair again, Malcolm felt an itch on his own scalp.

“What? That’s all you can do! Is scratch your head? This isn’t working.”

“No, no baby! That’s not it. It’s just—” Malcolm could only think of the quivering olive. The inky, black olives the color of her hair, the twitching olive in her mouth that she had chewed and swallowed alive.

“Just what?” Ana was at bedroom’s door, tugging the sash of her robe.

“I—” Malcolm got up and stood at the door in his boxers, whales with toothy grins smiled up at him. He blocked her exit as she tried to ram past him. But finally, after jutting knees and bumping elbows, both surrendered.

“Well?” Ana waited with her hands on her hips, her beady eyes lost underneath her hair.

“I just want to finish this page, baby.” Malcolm waved the magazine while stepping back to the bed. He climbed in and beckoned her. She made a step closer and sighed.

Ana arched her back, once again scratching the nape of her neck, and slipped under the covers without saying a word.

Malcolm continued to read, not really comprehending but letting the words wash over him. He felt as if all other life had been annihilated, and only he remained, left with no other option but to circle the earth again in search of other survivors. He itched, so he scratched. Outside, the snow continued to melt, exposing coarse, yellow grass meshed with green stubble. The ground continued to sweat from the inside out, and Malcolm felt more stagnant and hopeless than ever.

Finally Malcolm grew dizzy from the magazine’s greasy print and plopped it down; its pages sprawled and creased in a mess on the floor. Turning toward Ana, he expected to feel her soft, familiar curves against him. Instead, he found only brittle ridges. But still he stroked her, tickling the creases of her thorax as he slid his palms across the rest of her crisp exoskeleton. Her antennae twitched.

“I love you,” Malcolm whispered, and placed a fervid, wet embrace on her bristled pinchers before turning to switch off the light.