The tub of Morton salt in the cupboard is almost empty—only a fine-ground sprinkling at the bottom. When you shake it, the salt whispers like a baby’s rattle, like a rattlesnake, like the memory of a dream as it evaporates. Your cakes and quiches taste bland. Shouldn’t chocolate chip cookies still satisfy without the half-teaspoon of salt that the recipe calls for? Aren’t vegetables healthier without the extra sodium? You sprinkle a pinch on your eggs—a small luxury. You pour out the dregs along the windowsill, banishing unclean spirits, but what about the ones already inside? You’re supposed to pick up more salt on your way home from work, but you freeze in the grocery aisle—too many options. Course ground, fine ground, iodized, sea salt. There are different brands and sizes. There is the girl in the yellow raincoat, twirling her umbrella. She’s going about her day, ready for rain. She’s not paying you any attention at all.
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Lindy Biller is a writer based in Wisconsin. Her fiction has recently appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Vestal Review, Empty House Press, and Scrawl Place. Her debut fiction chapbook, Love at the End of the World, was published by The Masters Review in 2023.