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We were making sushi. I was fanning the rice with an old copy of the New Yorker. I said, “I’m not doing it right.” I was always saying things like that. I said, “Do it this way.” I was stirring the rice with a paddle, and cutting cucumbers into strips I could see thorough. I was making wasabi to the consistency of a baby’s earlobe. I told me that. I was using crab instead of fake crab made from Cod or Haddock. I only like real crabmeat. I taught me that. I was making my body a smaller and smaller version of myself. I told me that I was not too good for I. I was just normal like the rest of everyone else. I was not going on to better things. I should be happy just standing there in the kitchen making sushi with I. I tried to live in the moment. Like the time I hit me in the eye with a snowball. It could happen to anyone, I said. Sometimes an orange is the most delicious thing, an occasion to be celebrated, like the sunrise or the first cup of coffee. It was time to put a towel over everything. To absorb the steam. C’mon, I said, let’s just sit here. There was never enough space for I and me.

                                                                                                                        Set aside.

                                                                                                                        Allow to cool. 

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