Sauce for the Goose on the Bake or Broil.

Erin came up to me and put her finger in my face.  "Smell this and guess what it is" she said.

"Oh God Jesus" I screamed, and turn and ran.

To my amazement, she followed me, and in turn, this went all around the place, outside, inside, backyard, along the frontage, and right up the back stoop.

I could not-would not-let myself take my ease until I was in my room, door slammed and shut against her, and there she sat for hours, whimpering like a disappointed puppy.

I always suspected, even being friendly to her and all, that in the bathroom, she didn't get it all on the paper, and this was the kind of person, you're in a world of hurt if you get in a "guess that smell" game--maybe it was me, maybe it was Middendorf, or that other time last summer, but I wasn't about that, whatever she had gotten her little hands into or onto or around.

Even the girl from Charlotte did one of those hazmat bath cycles, taking off layers of skin every time, before she traded gas money for nude pictures.  I would go to the gas place and come back with three little baggies, each with a different kind of donut, like the Erin variety being Chocolate glazed, and their being a clean one with powders on it, and a sugar coating glazed.  And her talking about the Thanksgiving hen and the maple sh*t with basil and some other, her "sauce for the goose", a kind of thing where it slid greasily in the pan, its little ankles held up in the air past the breadth of its hips, and I look up and Erin, and its all accusatory, interrogatives, and I twiddle a hen ankle and she frowns, and it reminds me of the thought of all the worlds constructed just outside my room door as she whimpers, the disappointed puppy.