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“I love you, Konstantin. I love you like salt. And I'm going to fix this." Salt. More than salt. Morton's. Himalayan. Sweat. Blood. Capers. Roe. Maura. So much more than salt. Something shakes loose inside of him. An instinct to feed her. He only has one memory left, enough for a single ingredient. Something salty--- he was salty in it--- all attitude. But with an undertone of regret, a dash of guilt. A longing for affection. He recalls it--- the kitchen, the refrigerator door, the way the cold air felt along his skin--- lets it travel along his tongue--- his father and that awful tie, the kids and all of their unkindness, his own fear and shame and loneliness--- rolls it like a marble inside his mouth--- the anger that exploded from his chest, his dad's defeat, his own terrible regret--- and feels it harden, rough and textured, crystalline, saline, its nooks and crannies and hand-harvested flakes seasoned to taste, flavored by this memory--- the ache for attention, for connection, for love. It's a subtle salt. Delicate. Fleur de sel.” — Daria Lavelle