It all started with that commercial sized jar of peanut butter she'd let him borrow. Carried it the fourteen blocks from her apartment to his and back again. Now. At home. She feels confused. Can still hear the dog barking out in his parking lot. And the way his kisses on the surfaces of her skin and face felt like cool acidic pleasure. How she'd wanted him to stop. And the dog kept barking. Then she bit him firmly on the shoulder. Hard enough to leave a mark under his shirt. She wanted to see. The ring her wet mouth made on the fabric of his clothes. As he backed away. Mouth open. She wanted him to knock her over. To make her breath come back. She wanted the skin holding in her insides to stop shrinking in response to the air the way thin sheets of plastic do under high heat. His saliva sparkling on her face and neck drying in stiff streaks. His hands again in her hair. His tongue on her voice-box. Still. Standing in front of the mirror holding a stainless steel butter knife. She goes to work. Starting at the hairline. Scratching for blood.