The Extinction Museum: Exhibit #467 (old aspirin box containing segments of Ancylostoma caninum)
by Tina May Hall
Some of my friends aren’t that friendly. One rearranges my kitchen so that I scrape my knuckles on the cheese grater when I reach into the drawer. When I’m sick, another sends me chocolates with over-the-top messages of condolence that seem strangely hopeful of my demise. On road trips, a friend from a long time ago insists on eating garlic beef sticks and kelp protein bars. One stands in my office door and makes small talk while the cash register in her brain is tallying and whirring so loudly that my computer restarts. Many years ago, that friend attempted to plant a spy in my house by asking my son, then seven, to report back on any gossip I was spreading at the dinner table. I’ve had parties where the ratio of friends to not-friends was in perfect balance, and we all drank gin by the fire pit and hooted at the stars. Other parties were dead before they began; the clouds moved in, the toilet clogged, and all the mini quiches flattened like quarters because I neglected to preheat. There are things I have in common with my unfriendly friends. We all think the moon is the best mirror; we let our dogs kiss us on the mouth; we have a worm coiling under our thigh skin, already too long to be removed.