I don’t think I want to start listening to podcasts. I am too old to start listening to podcasts, now.

Dream: It’s closing time at the ice cream factory. A loud whistle the shape of a hat stand blows. My two male friends, who are tall sugar engineers from Finland, ask me to decide if either of them is my work husband. But there are no work husbands at the ice cream factory, I tell them, we are too busy combining sugar, cream, eggs, and other ingredients to make ice cream in large vats that are cold and covered with crystalline lattices of frost. The men get lost. They do not have time for me and I do not have time for them. They are talking to Nadia, the 59-year-old woman who checks to see that the lids are secure on the ice cream cartons. She says she will accept their proposal and removes her hairnet. She smiles like a lamprey. I hate Nadia. I walk to my car, telling myself as I bang one fist with conviction against my thigh with every step, that I will have to quit if the factory stops making the Tin Roof flavor. It is the only flavor I like. It is why I work there. I will not accept anything less than a job that allows me to make Tin Roof ice cream. My car is gone. The lights go off. I am trapped in the parking garage.

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