This is how it begins.

I’m in the bathroom, trying to make sense of my face. I bought a magnifying mirror recently, because otherwise when I put makeup on I’m just guessing. Thanks to my deteriorating vision I’m going by muscle memory more than anything else. I apply eyeliner to what I think is the right place and when I put my glasses on I see I’ve extended it out to my temples. I should probably give up at this point with eyeliner; what am I, Cleopatra? But I digress. Anyway I’m gazing intently at the 12x magnification of my pores—really, it’s mesmerizing—when Scott edges his way in.

Our bathroom is so small it can barely fit me, so Scott usually doesn’t—and can’t, really—join me.  I assume something terrible has happened, or he has caught a glimpse of my magnified face and it’s inflamed his senses and he must have me, yes right here, lack of space be damned.

He’s holding something in his hand. It’s sitting in his palm, a white blob.