TOUCH THE EVIDENCE

Nothing happened. That is exactly what it wants you to think.

PRESS FOR REASSURANCE

Too late. You are already reading Broken Zine.

There are things we do in daylight and things we do at 1:13 in the morning in front of an open refrigerator.

I am not proud of the second category.

The refrigerator light knows me better than most men.

It has seen me eat shredded cheese from the bag while standing perfectly still.

It has watched me drink pickle juice directly from the jar, pause, and then do it again because apparently shame has a refractory period.

It has illuminated the cold slice of pizza I swore I was saving for lunch.

And it has never once said, “Are you sure?”

This is more emotional support than I have received from several licensed professionals.

The trouble began when I started treating the refrigerator like a destination.

I would wake up at night.

Not hungry.

Just curious.

I would walk into the kitchen and open the door.

There it was.

The light.

The hum.

The mysterious half lemon hardening in a sandwich bag.

It felt private.

Intimate.

A little blue-white chapel of condiments.

I started lingering.

Sometimes I would not even take anything.

I would just stand there and look.

Mustard.

Eggs.

A container whose contents had passed beyond food and into archaeology.

Then my roommate caught me.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I was wearing one sock.

I had a spoon in my hand.

I said, “Thinking.”

She looked at the spoon.

“With cheesecake?”

“It helps.”

After that I tried to stop.

I put a sticky note on the refrigerator:

YOU ARE NOT HUNGRY. GO TO BED.

At 12:58 the next night I moved the note aside and opened the door.

I do not need judgment from office supplies.

Last Tuesday the bulb burned out.

I opened the refrigerator and there was only darkness.

I felt abandoned.

I stood there holding a fork, staring into the black interior like a widow at sea.

The next morning I bought a replacement bulb.

Warm white.

I installed it myself.

That night I opened the refrigerator.

The light came on.

We did not speak.

Some relationships do not need labels.

They need leftovers.

Lulu Vex keeps the confession drawer, where desire, bad judgment, office supplies, motel carpeting, and other dangerous household objects are allowed to testify.

Push something. The magazine is poorly supervised.

PUSH THE WEIRD BUTTON

A small bureaucrat somewhere just stamped APPROVED FOR NONSENSE.