Page 112 of Cackle

I stick to the list. Then I stop at the pet store to get Ralph some live crickets as a special treat.

I leave them out on the stairs, so he doesn’t see. I planned on surprising him tomorrow morning, but then end up crying as I put the groceries away and, for a while after, sitting on the couch, catching what seems like a disproportionate amount of snot with my bare hands.

This of course upsets Ralph, who lies on his back and flails his legs around for the duration of my sob session.

Afterward, I feel too guilty to let his gift wait until tomorrow.

“I got you something,” I say, wiping my hands on my pants.

He perks up.

“Wait here,” I say.

I take a few steps toward the front door. I spin around quickly, catching him right behind me.

“I said, wait.”

He looks up at me with so many eager eyes.

“Okay, okay,” I tell him. I open the door and get the crickets.

When he sees them, he squeaks with excitement.

“Not all at once,” I say.

At least I’m not totally alone. At least I’ve got Ralph.

But as I watch him hunt one of the crickets, as I watch him devour it, slurp up its juices, a chill slithers up my back and wraps itself around my neck.

—

I embrace the next morning with all the enthusiasm of a goat entering Jurassic Park.

I do my best to rally, to put on a decent outfit and use concealer on the zit that has appeared on my forehead, the approximate size of a demoted planet.

I go to the Starbucks drive-through in Aster for coffee. Whatever I get, it’s 50 percent caramel and I’m not complaining.

The day is benevolent and moves quickly. When I get home, I take out all of my ingredients and spread them across the counter. I watch several YouTube videos on how to cook beets for the salad. It’s more involved than I had anticipated. Salads are always too involved.

“No, this is good,” I say, scrubbing the beets. “Cooking is relaxing.”

Roughly ninety minutes later, my kitchen is a catastrophe. I’m dripping sweat. My purple beet-stained fingers are covered in Band-Aids, but I have a lovely three-course meal prepared and a sense of accomplishment.

I’ve never understood why people take pictures of their food, but . . . here I am. I grab my phone and snap a few photos to commemorate the occasion.

For your pathetic moments scrapbook? a malevolent voice asks me.

I tell it to fuck off.

I set the table and pour myself a glass of Pellegrino.

“Still or sparkling?” I ask Ralph.

He doesn’t get the joke.

“Crickets later,” I tell him.

He rubs his front legs together.