Suff-olk County 1978

It was New Year's Eve when I heard the zipper for the second time. It made me think of Deb's double vibraphone she'd procured from the cruise ship rummage sale last fall. The eerie extradimensional sound rippled through the auditorium, metallic with a full-bodied resonance you could feel in your sternum; it was hard to tell exactly where it was coming from. So I swivelled around and then swivelled again, and at the risk of losing my balance, I swivelled once more. Then, facing the stage, unavoidably tilting my head to one side, I heard something clear its throat in the way you do when you don't want to scare someone. 

"Don't turn around," it said, which was fine because I had already been doing so much swivelling.

The lights dimmed and then undimmed almost imperceptibly, and the air suddenly went damp and cold. I imagined I could see my breath and thought about what I should say next very carefully. After all, words are all we have, which is, in fact, a quote from the librarian I had a crush on in 8th grade.

"Good to see you again," I said and immediately knew it was wrong, not having seen anything yet. And not feeling assured it was a good thing at all.

They ignored my blunder and continued, this time with the puff of their voice cascading down the back of my neck. Skin raised, they were impossibly close, intoning, "Reprends ton souffle, petit champignon"

I wanted to tell them that my French was not well practiced, though I understood enough to feel good about the 'little mushroom' reference, but instead, all I could get out, considering the constricting feeling in my chest as my lungs collapsed, was "Mon souffle? Mon souff…."

It's the last thing I remember. Deb says, I'm lucky to be alive, which at least is some consolation, I suppose. She comes over Tuesdays and Saturdays to clean the spit out of my breathing apparatus and rub moisturizer into the scar that runs like a purple ribbon from my neck down to my hip bone. Suffice to souffle, so they say.