We drive back to my place, and I make him sit in the living room while I get the jar. The staff put my ovaries in formaldehyde, but a decade of marinating turned the liquid brown and murky. He has to roll the jar around to catch glimpses of grey tangles, like shaking a magic eight ball.
“So this is you,” he says.
“Just the important parts,” I say.
This is where, in an ideal world, he would put down the jar of what used to be me and make his way with what’s leftover. I even know what I’ll fix for breakfast in the morning: honey toast with eggs, overeasy.
But nothing works in this world, not even your own body, and he gives me back my snowglobe and says he has to go. I hug him good-bye, pressing my fingers between the fissures in his spine, and his hands lay on my lower back in the place where I’d have a tattoo if I was a total slut. But I’m not, so I watch him get into his car from my window, hit two cars while maneuvering out of his space, and skid into the snowed-out streets.
(Click through photo to see more of Jenn Fever’s photography.)
