By Mark L. S. Stone
Simon was starting a new diet on Monday. The refrigerator had gradually been filling up with strange new foods: pickled meats in cloudy brine, thick-skinned fruit covered with long tentacles, pungent spices.
“What’s this one?” Valerie asked. “It’s a stone jar.”
“Screw top or cork?”
Valerie frowned. “It’s sealed with wax, I think.” Valerie worked at the seal with one finger. Instead of a smell, a gust of wind blew Valerie’s hair back from her face.
Suddenly Simon was there, taking the jar from her hand and smoothing the wax back into place.
“That’s for the fifth week,” he said.