To be honest things weren’t going so well even before the head started coming out of my floor. I was unemployed and universally hated thanks to some choices I’d made. Afternoons I’d go sit in this median strip a few blocks from my apartment and write things in my notebook while cars barreled past. Sometimes I brought a guitar.

First it was just a soft patch. I figured maybe, you know, the floor was rotting. What did I know about floors?

I texted this guy Chris and was like. Hey Chris.

So Chris came over. He also seemed sort of a little bit more dressed up than the last time I saw him, though to be honest I don’t remember when that was or who Chris even is. He brought pizza. So I’m like, that’s cool. Better than Lee. Lee didn’t bring anything. When he saw the top of the head he—I mean Chris—well, you could tell he wasn’t expecting that. He brought his tools, too, I didn’t mention that. Both pizza and tools. Way better than Lee.

I asked Chris to touch it, you know, to see if it was warm. He said he didn’t want to. I said this is why I asked him to come over. This is what I needed him for. So Chris looked like he was going to throw up or like collapse in upon himself like a dead star due to this sudden revelation of like, the harrowing absurdity, futility, pain. I mean of existence. He laid the towel carefully over the head. I thought you just wanted to hang out, he said. He sounded like. Wounded. He took the pizza with him.

I asked Brandon if he’d touch the top of the head to see if it was warm. Meaning, alive. Brandon said no. I said, someone has to. He said, it’s your floor. I gave him this look. He sighed and told me how when we went on a date four years ago I was really rude. I tried to remember this date. I remembered lots of other dates, but none of those guys’ faces looked like Brandon’s, not really. I felt like I could grab Brandon’s wrist and put his hand on the head before he realized what was happening. Then we’d know.