If they stuffed you in a microwave would it cook you from the inside out? I can feel my brain burning at 103. Degrees. My throat claws like there’s something living inside it. I can’t eat. Because of me? Because of you? Maybe it’s only the flu. The doctor tells me cough medicine is a gimmick: that what they put in that can only make you worse, not better. My mother always warned me not to trust things with funny names. I thought she meant the French boy, from summer camp. She thought she meant ingredients you couldn’t pronounce. That’s when I knew that men and food were interchangeable. In a relationship with Ruben, in a relationship with Reuben on Rye. For a while I thought I’d made my choice, but another bowl of chicken soup and I might be pushed back to the men’s side.