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.