Porch screens all smell the same--of smoke and dust, a little metal. Standing behind or in front of one, staring in or out, the world is a simple, detached grid. Something permeable, like a membrane, between you and a storm--you and a bee. You and an exiled lover. The triumph of separation; "I dare you to try to enter here." Screen doors. Window screens. Inviting chaos--a screen is the fishnet stocking of a comfortable nesting instinct.

Knowing it was dirty, still holding everything that ever touched it, I pressed my face against its tension anyway. I sneezed. I went and washed my hands, sat down to write.