When he realizes he’s putting jelly on both sides of the bread, Solange puts the knife in the sink and sits in the corner with his head between the walls: this is all he can do. Confine his world to here, now, the carpet and baseboard. Small.

Stop it, he breathes to himself, drag it back. He blots his eyes with the heel of his hand and writes on his palm with his felt-tip that DISSIPATION DIDN’T WIN THE WAR. This time the mocking mental refrain doesn’t ask him exactly what did win it: oh, it says instead, you won?