Buy two basil plants—let one live. Strip the other naked with your teeth. Cherish your lemon zester. Look for bodies that know this pleasure. Take note of the cellulite in your thighs; consider your normal BMI. There are places you will see that were never on your bucket list, like the inside of your bones in a dream. Remember when you already felt too big and too old to be undressing in the back of a car. Quote and paraphrase the mouths you’ve met. Feel mature like a wine you now decline. They say you’ll always dream of smoking, no matter how long you’ve resisted; you are heartsick. Search for the bacitracin. Circle it into the bloody cat scratch. This is the in-between— the body stretching ahead and behind. Zest two of the three lemons the recipe calls for. Get tired. Wonder if you’ll even eat the cake. Cry in the car over NPR— you and everyone you know will be dead when Atwood’s Scribbler Moon is printed. Let the Future Library scoop out your lust, flatten it into a bookmark, hold it up in front of you so you can learn how to grieve.